


folie à deux

by coffeesuperhero



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Help Me Alex Reagan You're My Only Hope, Insomnia, Nightmares, Richard Strand: Reluctant Clairvoyant, Romantic Friendship, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Super Special Destinies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2018-08-08 05:10:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 65,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7744567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex discovers a cure for her insomnia, Richard Strand gets a little more than he bargained for, and both struggle to find answers to the mysteries that surround them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1A.

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime around and after 208, "Riverview," but parts from canon there. Eventually there will be spoilers for all current episodes. Each chapter will technically have two parts: A, told from Alex's perspective, and R, told from Richard's. For ease of reading, however, they'll be posted as separate chapters here on AO3. (I'll try to post them in tandem, or at least within a day or so of each other, unless life intervenes.) 
> 
> Please heed the warnings on each chapter-- Alex's nightmares (are they _really_ just nightmares?) will be pretty grim.

Alex Reagan is dreaming. 

She doesn't remember going to bed, but she knows she's dreaming all the same. It's a strange dream so far: currently, Nic is playing a game of checkers with her grandmother, which would be odd enough since the two have never met, but what makes this especially dreamlike is that her grandmother died seven years ago. But it's a pleasant dream, a nice change from the nightmarish horrorscapes that have filled her mind at night lately. 

And her grandmother likes Nic. Alex can tell, because she keeps trying to feed him her famous gingerbread cookies. 

"Nic, do you have anything to tell our listeners about that gingerbread? A review, maybe?" Alex teases. Everyone in the family knows the cookies are famous because they're not very good: in fact, Alex always suspected that her grandmother knew that, and used them as some kind of test for friends and would-be family members. What the test was, Alex never knew. Maybe this is her opportunity to ask. But before she can say anything, her grandmother speaks. 

"You can't stay, dear," her grandmother says. "You have to meet Richard." 

Alex frowns. "Richard? You mean, Doctor Strand?" 

And then the scene shifts, dissolving rapidly into noise and fluorescent light. The noise is someone saying her name, repeatedly, someone who also seems to be gripping her shoulders pretty tightly. The light is coming from the ceiling overhead. 

Well, she's definitely awake now. 

"Alex," someone says again, and her eyes focus on the person standing over her instead of the light on the ceiling. 

"Richard?" 

When she says his name and meets his eyes, wide and blue behind his glasses, the tense grip he has on her shoulders relaxes, just slightly. " _Alex_. Are you alright? Do you remember what happened?" 

She blinks, trying to clear the dream fog from her head, and glances around. She's on the concrete floor of Strand's basement, surrounded by boxes. Right. The boxes. The podcast. Her job. "I came over here to do some work," she remembers. "I was sitting here, reading some papers..."

Alex turns her head, and he follows the line of her gaze to an untidy pile of documents nearby. "Yeah, those papers." She tries to sit up, but he shakes his head. 

"Until we know what happened, I think you should stay still." 

The dream fog is gone now, though, leaving her with a faint yearning for her grandmother's terrible gingerbread cookies and a sore feeling in her neck from the way she was laying on the floor. In the dream's place is the somewhat embarrassing memory of how she wound up in this predicament, and she can already feel her cheeks begin to burn. Not for the first time in Strand's presence, Alex finds that she feels less like a grown adult and more like an awkward teenager who has forgotten her locker combination because the object of her affections has walked by. In the time that she's known him, Richard Strand has undeniably gotten under her skin, and not at all in a schoolgirl sort of way, she reflects, as stares up at those absurdly blue eyes and wishes they were above her for any number of reasons that definitely did _not_ involve her falling asleep on his basement floor. 

_Well, listeners_ , she thinks, to the invisible audience of podcast fans, _if the good doctor didn't think I was an idiot before..._

"I feel fine, um, I'm pretty sure I just...fell asleep," she confesses, and he raises an eyebrow. She meets his eyes and tries to sheepishly smile away the embarrassed flush from her face. "Oops?" 

"You fell asleep," he repeats, his deep voice a grumbly monotone, a particularly attractive quality of his, and one which seems especially unfair at the moment, with him still hovering over her like a lover, hands around her shoulders. He's frowning, though, which does at least help her separate her late-night fantasies from her current reality. She supposes she should be grateful for that, at least. "Is your insomnia really that bad?" 

"Unfortunately," she sighs. 

He releases her shoulders and sits back, his face a curious mixture of something she might call _wry concern_. "Then I suppose I should say I'm sorry for interrupting your nap. How do you feel?" 

"Well, unless you know of any documented cases of death by embarrassment, I'm okay," she says, and he huffs out a laugh. This time, when she moves to sit up, he doesn't stop her. 

"You still may have hit your head," he points out. 

"I feel fine. I mean, I'm exhausted and embarrassed, but I'm fine. I definitely just fell asleep while reading," she says. "That's all." 

"I take that to mean you're not at all sure as to whether or not you may have sustained a head injury," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Rich-- Doctor Strand," she sighs, but at the sight of his lips, pressed into a firm line, and the way his eyebrows have drawn together, the height of his _I, Richard Strand, Have a Ph.D. in Condescension from **Yale,**_ expression, she relents. "If it makes you feel better to check me for a concussion, go ahead." 

"Thank you," he says, his voice as crisp as his button-down shirts used to be. Methodically, he walks her through every concussion check she's ever heard of before he seems satisfied and helps her to her feet. 

"I'm making us both some tea," he tells her, and she gathers that drinking it will not be optional. 

"All right," she says, and follows him upstairs and into the kitchen, feeling a bit like a wayward puppy that has eaten someone's shoe. She curls into the breakfast nook in the corner of the kitchen, another upcycled piece of Ruby decór, and absently draws random shapes on the table with her fingers. A few feet away, Strand works to make them the mandatory tea, filling the kettle and collecting mugs from a cabinet. It's weird to see him doing something so domestic, and she almost tells him as much. But before she can say anything, she notices the slight flush on his face, the way his hands shake ever so slightly as he measures out the loose leaves of the tea. Underneath his usual wryly calm exterior, he is, she sees now, _rattled_. Her mind whirls to life, wondering what caused this, what could have happened before he came in to find her sleeping, what kind of break there must be in the case. After her time with the black tapes, she's pretty well-practiced at spinning up all manner of strange things, and in the space of a few moments her sleep-deprived brain conjures up one bizarre scenario after another. 

"Are _you_ okay?" 

He frowns, looking up from measuring tea leaves. "What?" 

"You're shaking," Alex points out, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, neglecting the tea, clearly annoyed that she's noticed and doubly so that she mentioned it. "Is there a break in the investigation? Did something happen? Did you find anything new about the black tapes? About Tiamat, or the Axis Mundi? Did the police find Simon Reese, did _you_ find something new about Coral--" 

"No. There's nothing," he says flatly, interrupting her endless stream of questions and returning his attention to the kettle, the tea, anything but her and her questions. Per usual, his answers leave her entirely unsatisfied, but it's been so long since she's really slept that she's well past the point of being able to let this go. 

She shakes her head and slaps her palm down on the table. It stings, but she ignores it; Strand doesn't even jump. "I'm not taking no for an answer here. There has to be something." 

"Why?" 

"Because you're always so _calm_ ," Alex says. "And now you're not, and look, I feel like I haven't slept more than eight hours in the past two weeks and I'm not even recording this, Richard, so please, for my sanity, or what's left of it, _what are you not telling me_?" 

He blinks. When he looks at her again, his eyes are huge behind his glasses; they almost seem to fill the frames with a sea of bright blue. He clears his throat. 

"Alex, I-- Alex. Consider the situation. I found you collapsed on the basement floor. You weren't moving. You didn't stir when I came down the stairs. You...you didn't appear to be breathing at first," he sighs, taking off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. After a long moment, the stillness of the room only broken by the first faint whistling sounds from the teakettle and the sound of their breath, he slips his glasses back on and continues to speak. "I immediately suspected the worst: that someone had broken in looking for me or some of my father's things and surprised you here instead. Forgive me if my jump to conclusions has left me a bit... out of sorts." 

"Oh," she says. Any leftover righteous anger she had been cultivating drains away, leaving her feeling like an empty shell covered over with a tiredness that clings to her body like a second skin. 

"I am relieved to find that you're unharmed," he adds. 

"Oh," she repeats, and closes her eyes as the emptiness now gives way to a rising tide of panic and embarrassment and frustration. As it threatens to overwhelm her, she grips the edge of the table, hoping she won't start crying and knowing that tears are not far away. 

_Great. And now, listeners, you're about to hear me fall apart in front of Richard Strand, because he had the audacity to be worried about me. God, I am **so** glad I'm not actually recording this._

"Alex?" 

"I'm...sorry," she says, between deep gulps for breath that never seems to fill her lungs. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm just. So. Tired." Entirely outside her control now, tears leak from the corners of her eyes. She flattens her palms on the table, pushing against the planks of reclaimed wood, trying to right the sinking ship that is her exhausted mind. 

His voice slides between her thoughts, the sound of it closer than it was before. Belatedly, she hears the bench nearby scraping against the floor and realizes he's moved to sit across from her. This weird gesture of comfort from someone so unexpected causes another surge of emotional tears, and she squeezes her eyes closed, willing them away. 

_Come see the softer side of Richard Strand, listeners! Well, not see it, but you know what I mean._

"Alex," he says again, calling her back to earth. "How long has it been since you slept?" 

"Um, maybe ten minutes ago?" she jokes weakly, eyes still closed. She can hear a soft, short bark of laughter, and it does improve her mood, but only slightly. She opens her eyes again. "I'm sorry. I'm a mess. I guess it was only a matter of time. Who knew sleep was so important, anyway?" 

"There's a guest room upstairs," he tells her, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the stairs. "Forget about the tea. Go. Sleep. You shouldn't drive, if you're falling asleep in basements." 

"Thank you, but I don't know," she sighs, pushing her palms flat against her eyes for a moment, blocking any more of her tears from view. When she feels more composed, she moves her hands again, hoping that she doesn't look too out of control. "I should try to get some work done. I'll just grab some coffee on my way back to the studio." 

Strand leans across the table toward her, and for a moment she cannot decide what she wants to do more: lean forward, closer to him and the strange sense of comfort he seems to represent right now, or lean back into the whirling maelstrom of _journalistic ethics_ suddenly swirling around in her brain. 

_Get it together, Alex,_ she orders herself sternly. 

But now Strand-- who has beautiful eyes, really, and sometimes she regrets that the podcast isn't a YouTube series instead of a podcast, so she could gaze at them more often while she's editing raw footage-- is staring intently at her, in a scene right out of any number of cheesy daydreams that she's slightly ashamed to have had, but then again, she has to have _something_ to think about during hours of editing. And now, to her sleep-deprived mind, this is where the handsome but previously emotionally unavailable love interest tells the determined yet charming protagonist that he was worried about her not because he might feel guilty if some bizarre cult member broke into his house and attacked her, but because he's fallen in love with her, and journalistic ethics be damned, he's going to sweep her up and carry her off to bed for some fantastic sex and exhausted, blissful, nightmare-free sleep. 

It's a slightly modified version of a frequent favorite in the rotating playlist of Alex Reagan's fantasies. See also: angry, why-did-you-record-that sex.

_I realize this podcast is taking kind of a strange turn, but we did decide to tell events as they unfolded, listeners, and here I am, across this relatively small table from Richard Strand, and any minute now he will open his mouth and that wonderful gravelly voice will say--_

"Why do you think you have trouble sleeping?" 

_Okay, that's definitely not the right line._

Immediately, Alex bristles, fantasies shoved aside, her hands curling into fists. If there's anything this insomnia has gifted her with, it's the ability to swing wildly from tearful gratitude to blinding anger in less than five seconds. She's so tired, and so past the point of patience with everyone's surefire cures for her insomnia, even when it's well-intentioned, because oh, doesn't everybody have one: drink a glass of wine before bed, smoke a bowl, have you tried valerian root, Alex?, no? you really should!, drink a cup of chamomile tea, don't eat red meat, don't eat GMO's, and no television after 8pm, or emails, or anything with a screen, and now, of course, whatever you do, don't equate the totality of evidence suggesting that there's some truth to these strange occurrences you've been investigating with proof that the strange things in all these cases exist, or, in other words, don't get _apophenia_ , Alex, _there's no such thing as Tall Paul_ , and chanting the names of demons in your sleep is _totally normal_.

"Oh, good, you've diagnosed me. Let me guess. Apophenia?" she practically spits the last word out, as though her teeth can rip the word apart as it leaves her mouth, ensuring that she will never, ever, have to hear it again. "Trust me, I've already tried telling myself that the monsters under my bed aren't real. It isn't working." 

_And then I slapped Richard Strand across his smug, handsome face, and in an entirely unrelated turn of events, it looks like this will be our last episode, listeners! Thanks for coming along with us on this journey. Our next podcast, How To Survive Soul-Crushing, Demon-Fueled Insomnia, will be released a week past never, because I'm out of a job!_

"Alex," he sighs, "that isn't actually what I meant. The work we're doing, the things we've uncovered-- the things _you've_ uncovered-- they would make it difficult for anyone to rest." 

Her anger turns cold, then, as the more horrible memories of her investigations surface. "You're talking about Maddie Franks." 

For a moment, the words swing between them like the lifeless body that haunts her waking nightmares. Then he clears his throat, and they are gone. 

"Among other things," he concedes. "My immediate point was that diving back into work without at least trying to rest probably wouldn't be particularly efficacious." 

"I'm fine," she insists, but she can't even convince herself of that anymore, so she knows she has no hope of convincing a professional skeptic. "I'd rather just...drink that tea you're making and try to make it through until tonight, if it's all the same to you." 

He shrugs his shoulders and returns to the stove, where the kettle is whistling insistently now. "Suit yourself. The guest room isn't going anywhere." 

Alex takes a breath, and then another, and another, until she feels calm enough to trust herself to speak again. "When did you get a guest room, anyway?" 

He seems to sense her need for a subject change, and he rambles on about the house for a little longer than he might have otherwise. "It was Ruby's idea. Her... _remodeling_ is slowly moving upstairs. She said it would make the house easier to sell, when I do eventually let it go. Something about potential buyers being better able to envision the place as a home if it looks like one already. Apparently, unfurnished homes stay on the market longer." 

"Makes sense," Alex agrees, and he sets a mug of tea in front of her. 

"I have some work to do," he begins, those sharp blue eyes clearly assessing her current state of mind, trying to decide if he should stay or go. 

"I'll be fine," she says. She pulls the mug toward her and breathes in the steam. "Ahh. See? I feel better already." 

"I see," Richard drawls, and it is clear that he does, in fact, see through her facade, but he leaves her with at least a little bit of dignity. 

She heaves a sigh as he goes, then takes her phone out of her back pocket, realizing suddenly that she could have accidentally dialed everyone in her phone book while she was asleep on the basement floor. Mercifully, there are no outgoing calls or texts, just a few emails and some messages from friends, invitations to dinners and parties that she's far too exhausted to attend. 

She's typing a text to one of her friends, politely declining the invitation to dinner and a movie, when Wendy Hochman slides into the seat across the table, just where Strand had been moments before. 

"Hello, Alex." 

"W-wendy?" 

Alex's brain, almost on autopilot, begins narrating to no one again. _It's been awhile since we've talked to Wendy Hochman, who along with her husband and son went missing around the time Maddie Franks...died. You might remember her from our third episode of this season._

"I'm glad to see you're resting here comfortably," Wendy says. The Wendy that Alex had interviewed hadn't exactly been animated, but she had at least had some emotion. But this woman...her hands seem to be folded neatly in her lap, and her face is entirely devoid of expression. 

"Um. I'm not exactly-- resting?" 

"Good," Wendy says, again, her voice a flat, emotionless line. "Neither is my family, not that you've bothered to look for us." 

The words are accusatory, but still, Wendy's face and voice betray nothing. 

"I-- Wendy, the police have been looking for you everywhere, but-- why are you _here_? How did you get in?"

"We're always here, Alex," Wendy says. "And now, you will be too." 

Her hands finally leave her lap, and when she places them on the table, Alex sees that she's holding a large carving knife. Wendy begins to smile, then, a horrible, crooked thing that grows only more terrifying when she reaches up and begins to peel the skin away from her face, like she's taking off a mask.

Alex opens her mouth to call for help, call for Strand, anything, but she cannot scream and she cannot move. All she can do is watch, petrified, as Wendy Hochman continues her terrible work. 

There's something else, something she can't place, some kind of chanting, but it's so close, so very close, that it might as well be next to her. She's afraid to take her eyes from Wendy, afraid to keep looking, terrified for what must have become of Strand that he isn't coming to her aid. The chanting gets louder, and just as Wendy reaches for the carving knife, Alex realizes that it isn't chanting at all: it's her name. Someone is calling her name. _Strand_.

"Richard?" 

"Alex!" 

She bolts out of her nightmare, banging her knees on the old tabletop of the breakfast nook. It upsets her full mug of tea, now long cooled, but she sees that Wendy is gone and Strand is next to her, one concerned hand on her shoulder, steadying and strong. Tea runs across the table, pooling in the old knots of the wood and washing off onto everything: onto Alex, onto the floor, and onto Strand. 

"Oh, god," she groans, both from the pain in her knees and the adrenaline pounding through her system. His hand still rests on her shoulder, and without thinking, she reaches up for it, her smaller fingers, slippery with tea, gripping tightly. Mercifully, he says nothing, just stands with her while she waits for her heartbeat to slow and her breathing to return to normal. When it does, finally, she realizes that she's still holding onto his hand like he's her only touchstone with reality, and she relinquishes it with a sigh and a muttered apology. 

He waves the apology away, which unfortunately means his hand leaves her shoulder, and she feels colder for its loss. "Are you okay?" 

"No," she admits, covering her face with her hands. "My nightmares haven't been great, but that one was...particularly gruesome. God, I need sleep. Real, good sleep." 

"The offer of the guest room still stands," he tells her. 

"I think I'll just have another nightmare if I try," she sighs, surveying the disaster she's made with the tea. "At least let me help you clean this up first. I need a distraction." 

"Alex--" 

"Please," she says, putting all her exhaustion into that one word, and he raises his hands, palms up, and relents. 

+

After an accidental nap in front of Strand's kitchen sink, tea-soaked dishtowel still clutched in one hand, she stops protesting and agrees to give the guest room a try. 

The guest room, such as it is, is currently a repository for random pieces of furniture that must have been left in the house decades ago. Alex can see Ruby's handiwork here and there: a rug, some new light fixtures yet to be hung, a stack of framed art that Strand would certainly never have chosen. Somehow, though, in the midst of all the assembled junk sits a full size bed, and Alex gratefully climbs into it, pulling up the aging quilt over her tired body. Despite the terror of the last waking nightmare, her exhaustion wins out over thoughts of shadows in the corners, and sleep overtakes her quickly. 

Barely two hours later, she jolts awake, a silent scream contorting her face as her hands make fists in the old quilt. The details of this nightmare have already faded without a trace of what new horrors have plagued her sleeping mind. Of course. It was too much to hope that she could find peace here, in this house. For all she knows, Howard Strand was a secret member of the Brothers on the Mount, and there are arcane symbols and sacred geometry covering every inch of the floorboards. 

"God, I'm a mess," she says, when she realizes how frankly _insane_ her thoughts have become lately. 

Still, she checks under the bed for anything unusual before she goes downstairs. Just in case. 

It's dark outside now, but not completely-- the windows in the hallway upstairs allow in the last hazy light of sunset. She should probably be hungry, but her lack of sleep has sapped her will to think of eating, and her stomach barely even rumbles at her. The old quilt, which she has wrapped around herself like a cloak, trails along behind her as she makes her way to the living area on the main floor. She expects to retrieve her laptop, make the tea that Strand had offered her before, and work until she feels aware enough of the world around her to drive herself home. But as she rounds the corner into the living area, she sees that she is not alone: Strand, his normal sense of decorum temporarily abandoned, sits on the floor instead of the furniture, one long leg stretched out before him as he balances a stack of file folders on the raised knee of his other leg. In the place of his usual trousers and dress shirt, she is astonished to find that not only does Richard Strand own casual clothing that isn't flannel, he is wearing it. Her brain unhelpfully directs her eyes to focus on the way the white t-shirt reveals some fairly well-shaped biceps that the dress shirts always obscure. She bats the thought away and clears her throat, resolutely looking only at Strand's face and thinking the words, "Journalistic ethics" repeatedly to herself. 

"Doctor Strand? I'm sorry," she adds immediately, when he startles. 

"Don't be. I didn't expect to see you so soon." 

"Couldn't sleep," she shrugs. 

"Neither could I." He does at least look sympathetic about their shared insomnia, which is a strange look for him, but there it is. Her heart beats in doubletime for moment. If Strand is going to continue being kind and concerned for her well-being, she's not sure she'll last the month.

"Well, I hope my insomnia isn't contagious," she sighs, and tiptoes her way onto the couch, careful to avoid dragging the quilt through his stacks of paper and other materials. 

"I have never seen evidence to suggest as much," Strand says, in what she suspects is an attempt at humor. Alex fights not to roll her eyes, settling instead for slumping onto the couch and directing a sharp exhale upwards toward her bangs, which had fallen over her eyes as soon as she settles against the old leather of the couch. She could swear that Strand stifles a laugh-- a real, genuine one-- but when her hair at last obediently shifts out of her line of sight, no trace of levity remains on his face, and he continues studiously poring over his documents as though she hadn't interrupted him at all. 

"What are you looking for?" 

"My father was investigating another dig site shortly before he died," Strand says. "I'm trying to ascertain where it was." 

"The Watchers and the Horn of Tiamat again?" she asks, and he nods. 

"He has some notes here," Strand says, holding them up, as though she can read the tiny scribblings from this distance. "Something about the key being in the missing parts of the Enûma Eliš." 

"I-- don't know what that is," she admits. Strand only shrugs. 

"I'm not surprised. It's an obscure writing, at least for those who aren't students of mythology." He reaches for a thick book, unearthing it from a pile of loose papers. 

She wrinkles her nose. "If you're going to hand me that--" 

"Considering that you'd rather _breathe_ your hair into submission than free your hands from their quilted prison to do the work," he says, and yes, that is absolutely a real smile pulling at his lips, "I thought I'd simply read it to you." 

"Perfect," she grins, and he chuckles as he flips through the pages. Her stomach feels like a trampoline when he laughs like that, but in a strangely good way. 

"The Enûma Eliš, or Babylonian creation myth, was written in one-thousand lines on seven clay tablets, most of which have been found in their entirety. The fifth, however, was recovered only in fragments, and..." 

She can feel her eyes closing after he finishes reading just the first sentence, and though she struggles valiantly to process the words, the soothing gravitas of Strand's voice is too much for her tired body. Sleep creeps up on her like fog rolling in over the Sound, and with the comforting reassurance of Strand's voice filling every shadowy expanse of her mind, chasing away any malingering visions of tall men and chanted horrors, she surrenders, at long last, to sleep. 

\+ 

When she wakes again, sunlight streams through the old windows, a rare sight for any morning in Seattle, but even rarer for her, lately. When the sun is up, anymore, she has been up long before it. Across the room, Strand, too, has succumbed to sleep, his tall body somehow compressed into the confines of an easy chair. He loosely holds his glasses in one hand, as though he took them off to rub his eyes and did not manage to return them to his face before sleep intervened. They dangle precariously over the arm of the chair. Alex takes this rare opportunity to study him, unhindered now by either propriety or professionalism. A hint more grey touches his temples now than it did a year ago when they first met, but even the strain of conspiracies and apocalyptic symphonies has not softened the angular lines of his face or weakened the muscles of his arms. Strand is no Sexy James Bond, but he has his own appeal: she has not failed to notice the slender contours of his biceps in his button-down shirts, or the shape of him in his perfectly tailored trousers. Even now, asleep in an easy chair and wearing an undershirt and long running pants, with the stubble on his face approaching what might be more appropriately characterized as an eight o'clock shadow, he looks good to her. And he looks peaceful. It's nice, in the lazy early morning light, to think that sleeping here, a few feet from her, might have contributed in some small way to that peace, and she feels warm from more than the quilt that covers her. 

Strand stirs, then, and Alex quickly packs all her thoughts away. 

"Good morning," they say, together. She grins brightly; he smiles wryly; everything finally seems as it should be. 

_Sleep is amazing, listeners. It's even better on those Casper mattresses we keep telling you about, but right now, if I'm given the choice of falling asleep on an old couch while Richard Strand reads to me, or tossing and turning and jumping at every creak in the floorboards while alone on my own mattress...I know which one I'm going to choose._

Alex shifts a bit under the quilt as Strand slips his glasses back on. She yawns, the pleasant kind of yawn that happens only after a restful night, and he smiles at her. He really needs to stop doing that. It makes him even more attractive. _Ethics_ , the rational part of her brain screams. It sounds a lot like Nic, actually, now that she thinks about it. 

She blinks hard, trying to reset her thought processes. "What time is it?" 

"Seven thirty," Strand says, after checking his watch. "Are you hungry?" 

"Yes, actually," she replies, surprised at the way her stomach grumbles at the thought of food. A good night's sleep has definitely returned her appetite to her, and she feels more like herself than she has in months. 

"All right," he says, and knowing Strand as she thinks she does, she half expects him to suggest some pricey brunch place, but instead he just stands, wincing slightly as he stretches his body out of the uncomfortable posture he had slept in, and heads into the kitchen. 

_Well, listeners,_ she thinks to herself, _I think I am about to discover what our enigmatic skeptic eats for breakfast._

After yawning again and doing some stretching of her own, Alex pads softly into the kitchen to find Strand at the stove, various ingredients neatly arranged in a line next to it. The faint scent of toasting bread drifts through the air, filling the room with a delicious smell and a cozy warmth. It's really a testament to the power of the human brain, she thinks, that just one good night's sleep can make the world look so different: even the breakfast nook, site of her horrible vision yesterday, doesn't seem frightening right now. Then again, she's got a pretty great distraction from fear in the form of one Richard Strand, who is somehow managing to look even better while he's cooking her breakfast. From this angle, she can see that his hair is a bit of a mess in the back, and she hides a smile behind her hand. 

_Yes, listeners, it's true: even Richard Strand gets bedhead. Or chairhead, I guess. Um. You know what, actually, I'm going to stop thinking about the word "head" right now._

Her stomach rumbles audibly, and she gratefully accepts the diversion. "So, what's for breakfast?" 

"Eggs Benedict," he says. 

"Oh, wow." 

"You're not a vegetarian?" he asks, and she shakes her head. 

"Nope. Just, um, unused to an actual meal for breakfast," she says, thinking of the many boxes of hot pockets and toaster strudels that are currently filling her freezer. Strand, meanwhile, continues to work, melting butter in a small pan and slowly drizzling it down into a bowl with what looks like an egg. As a bona fide horrible cook, Alex has no idea what's happening at first, but vague memories of eggs Benedict and champagne from brunch dates with friends finally call it to mind. "Wait. Are you actually making your own Hollandaise?" 

He looks over at her, the hand holding the whisk still stirring away. "Are you telling me you don't?" 

"Uh, I think the last thing I successfully cooked was a piece of toast, and even that was a little burned," she admits, laughing. 

"I see," he says, both amused and somewhat judgmental, as he takes a break to slice some Canadian bacon into thin strips before returning to the Hollandaise. 

"Hey, it runs in the family," she explains, leaning against the counter as she watches him work. "I come by it honestly. My mother can barely make cereal." 

"I could have been described similarly, once," he says, which she does not believe for a moment, because she cannot envision Richard Strand doing anything he was bad at. He taps the spoon against the side of the bowl, seemingly satisfied with his work, and sets it aside to settle the bacon atop a frying pan. "I taught myself to cook when I was in high school." 

"You mean you weren't too busy leading meetings of the Junior Skeptic Society?" 

"Ha. Not exactly," he says, and there's a story there, she thinks, but Strand keeps cooking, and he's so beautifully competent that she can't focus on much else. The bacon sizzles away, while in another saucepan, water starts to boil; he adds vinegar, stirs, and then cracks eggs into the little watery whirlpool. 

Alex tries and fails to watch the eggs and bacon instead of the man cooking them, narrating to her pretend audience again as she does. It helps, somehow. 

_My Journalism Senses were tingling, listeners, but if I'm honest, I was pretty mesmerized by the sight of Strand cooking. I think this is why my college professors were so serious about maintaining objectivity and distance from your subjects, because I could have asked a thousand questions about the Black Tapes, about Strand's childhood...and instead I just watched him crack eggs like it was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen. Am I in over my head? Let's find out, after the break..._

Oblivious to her silent running monologue, Strand is now taking English muffins, freshly toasted, from the oven. As he bends to pull out the tray they're on, Alex finds that she's suddenly very interested in the ceiling, at least until she hears the oven close with a snap and judges it safe to return her gaze to the stove, where the thin, perfectly crisp strips of Canadian bacon are finding a new home atop toasted muffins but beneath a poached egg. 

"Oh," she says, as understanding dawns. "So that's how you poach an egg." 

"You really _don't_ cook, do you?" 

"Like I said," she laughs. "Toast is a challenge. But-- my poor culinary skills aside, can I help with anything? I feel like a bad houseguest right now." 

"There's not much left to do," he shrugs. "But if you'd like coffee with your breakfast, there's hot water in the teakettle, an old pour over coffeemaker in the cabinet to your left, and I believe Ruby left some ground coffee in the pantry." 

" _Coffee_. Perfect. Thank god for Ruby," Alex says, and starts to walk past him toward the pantry.

"I agree with the sentiment, if not in the existence of a mystical third party whose capricious whims shape all of human reality," Strand intones, and without thinking of the intimacy of the gesture, she bumps her hips against his as she passes by, teasing, "You know what I meant." 

It is entirely, absurdly domestic. It's so domestic that if they were on a sitcom, the audience track would probably have been a chorus of _awwwws_. But this isn't tv drama, this is live and unscripted, and no one knows quite what will happen. Alex certainly doesn't. 

Time stops. They stop, still and silent and staring. As they stand there, Alex's thoughts seem to come from far away, as though her mind is on one plane of existence and her body on another. She wonders from afar how long it has been since someone has touched him, and not just sexually: human contact of any kind does not seem to be high on his list of priorities on any day, and certainly not lately. At the place where their hips met, her skin under her jeans feels electrified, reminding her that seeking touch from other humans hasn't been high on _her_ to-do list, either. 

The seconds must surely be ticking past, but still they only stand and stare as though neither of them have seen another person in centuries. The last time anyone looked at her like this... well, if she's honest, no one has ever really looked at her quite like this, but the closest thing her mind can conjure is her college boyfriend from years ago, now, and still the only really serious relationship she's had. He used to bring her coffee, just the way she liked it, in the late hours of the night while she worked at the campus radio station. He'd sit next to her, watching her work with his chin propped on one hand, and while the music played and the "Off Air" sign was on he would tell her she was beautiful, and kiss her until the sun came up. 

She thought that was all she wanted, then, when she was still searching for her own sense of self; she thought she wanted someone to meet her where she was. Strand will never do that, physically or otherwise; he will always stand taller, he will always be a challenge, an Everest to a mountaineer, a Pulitzer to a journalist, something to strive for, to explore and seek and find and perhaps still never know fully, to chase with the same relentless determination that marks her approach to her work. Alex Reagan knows who she is, now. She doesn't need anyone to find her. What she needs is someone to _discover_. 

_And then, listeners, violating several sections of the journalistic code of ethics, I kissed a man twenty years older than me after having only one night of real sleep in over a month, and I currently have no way of knowing if it was due to the relief of finally sleeping, or the continuing effects of insomnia on my decisionmaking ability, or the way that white t-shirt and slight bedhead really worked for him, or something more terrible entirely. Do I love this man? Or do I just love chasing a good story? And that's the newest mystery we're trying to solve on season two of The Black Tapes, so stay with us!_

"Breakfast is ready," Strand says finally, and the spell is broken. Time runs at its usual pace, and the moment passes with nothing more than the lingering thought of what might have been. 

Her ethics shiny and clean for another day, but her heart a little worse for wear, she heads to the pantry for coffee.


	2. 1R.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard Strand, human disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of spoilers for 210/211 here! (Edited to add: now that I've listened to 212, gonna mark this as spoilers for that, too. I guessed right on some things, woohoo!)
> 
> See the endnotes for references, or, _A Guide to the Many Allusions of one Richard Strand, Ph.D._ , AKA: that literate jackass.

The day is going reasonably well, in Richard's estimation. 

He has several promising leads on the location of Thomas Warren, and he's managed to unearth the appropriate book with which to decipher Coralee's most recent letter, and all before five o'lock. The book in question is a rare first edition of Thackeray's _Vanity Fair_ , which he has just managed to find at a used bookstore in downtown Seattle. As he heads to the register, flipping the book over in his hands, he wonders what his weekly dose of conspiracies from Coralee will be. 

At least this time she doesn't seem to be sending him any kind of hidden message inside her hidden messages, although of course he won't know for certain until he decodes it. He hands the book to the cashier and thinks back to her first letter, a month ago or more now. It had arrived the week after he and Alex had gone up to the Empress, a few days after Pacific Northwest Stories had released the episode where Alex had the temerity to mention that only one of them had asked for separate hotel rooms, but that she wouldn't say who. In a not so subtle jab, Coralee's first letter required him to acquire a first edition of _Little Women_ to decode it, and worse still, the book cipher directed him to the chapter where the protagonist, Jo, marries her _older gentleman_.

His lips twitch in irritation even now as he thinks about it. Coralee has never been particularly good at pulling punches, even through coded writings. He sent her a reply using Fukuyama's _The End of History and the Last Man_ as the cipher, indicating that he didn't appreciate the sly referendum on his choices from a woman who'd been playing dead for twenty years. But he also ended his note with, "Message received," because there are so many, many reasons he shouldn't cross that line, and very few that he should. He had thought, up until that point, that he'd played his hand fairly close to his chest, kept any nascent and/or inappropriate feelings for one Alex Reagan off the air and inside his mind instead. Apparently, he had some more work to do on that front, or perhaps Coralee was just that good at reading him, even from far away. 

Either way, he really, really should have remembered to ask for separate rooms. 

"Must be your lucky day," says the man behind the counter, calling him back to reality. 

"I'm sorry?" he asks, as the cashier rings up his purchase. 

"We just got this one in yesterday afternoon," the man explains, tapping the book. "Estate sale." 

"I see." 

"Will that be all?"

"Yes," he says, handing over an appropriate amount of cash and resisting the urge to explain to the man behind the counter that he doesn't believe in anything as ridiculous as luck. We make our own way in this world: if someone is lucky it almost always means they've worked diligently and reaped the rewards of their efforts. The entire concept of _luck_ exists as yet another way for small minds to explain the perfectly explainable, or to soothe the battered egos of the less than accomplished, the average person who can't comprehend the extraordinary boundlessness of the human capacity for greatness. Richard, however, is not burdened with such simplicity; he understands perfectly well that he is in charge of his own destiny, that the world is what he makes of it. Of course, in the time it would take for him to explain this to the cashier, he could have driven back to the house and unlocked the mysteries of Coralee's most recent letter, so he merely accepts his change and his book, and leaves. 

And so it is that Richard Strand, master of his own fate, arrives home far earlier than expected to find Alex Reagan's car in his driveway. He frowns as he pulls alongside it. He had given her a key largely so that she could come and go as she pleased _while he was away_ , but then, this is hardly the first time Alex has been given an inch and taken the proverbial mile. It's not that he's all that upset about it, it's just that he finds her unsettling, or to be more accurate: he finds it unsettling that _he, Richard Strand_ , holder of two Ph.D's from Yale and sole captain of the ship of his life, allows her to continue playing fast and loose with his personal boundaries. 

The last time he allowed this sort of thing to happen, after all, it was an unmitigated catastrophe. 

In an attempt to forestall any further such tragedies, he minimizes his time with Alex in particular. After the _Little Women_ incident, he had actually taken the time to map it out, methodically analyzing problems and solutions vís-a-vís the person at the center of this little infatuation. For example: _Obstacle:_ Alex's smile; _Solution:_ Avoid at all costs. Other things to be avoided included her laugh, the sound of her voice, her relentless determination, her capacity for wonder, her hair, her eyes...and then the list got very long and he got very distracted, and couldn't settle on much of a plan at all outside of spending as much time outside her presence as he can manage.

In short: he's in over his head, and he knows it.

At the PNWS studios, he once overheard one of the interns referring to him as "a human disaster." Based on the way she had said it and the way the others had laughed, he had shrugged it off, suspecting at the time that they were merely complaining about the volume of research projects he'd assigned them. The phrasing was odd, but like most everything the interns talk about, it made little sense and probably had to do with the internet. Then again, it is a wonderfully succinct if unfortunately apt description for his life, with all its little disasters. Richard Strand: Human Disaster, a Tragedy in Three Acts. The story begins with his strange childhood of imagined shadow men, too many voices, and nightmares pointing the way to dead friends; the second act includes an estranged child and a legally dead wife; and here in Act III, we see our unfortunate anti-hero has developed an unrequited yearning for a many-years younger woman who, as a result of her professional involvement with him, has developed a crushing case of insomnia and who probably thinks less of him as a man than as the center of some kind of international paranormal mystery. 

So, yes, _Richard Strand, human disaster,_ does have a certain... cachet, he acknowledges, as he unlocks the front door and keys in the code to disarm the alarm system. Lesser minds would probably refer to him as _unlucky_ , but he understands the weight of the choices he's made. 

"Alex?" he calls, expecting to hear the bright tones of her voice echo back. She's almost always happy to see him. Mentally, he adds that to the list of things he shouldn't dwell on. But she doesn't answer, no sunny, warm voice calls out to him from any of the dusty corners of this old house. He walks from room to room, but although her keys and bag sit on a table by the door, Alex herself is nowhere to be found. His heart rate speeds up as worry sets in, familiar anxieties retreading old mental pathways as he sees the basement door is ajar.

He's never had a quiet mind. His earliest memories, from that little-discussed act one of his life, are all marked by sensory overload, with too much light, too many shadows, and a world that seemed made out of sounds: so many thoughts, some his own and some that seem to belong to someone else, or more than one someone. Over time, he slowly learned to filter it out, layer over it with reason and rationality. Piece by piece, brick by brick, he built a fortress and shut out the world, until finally, the boy who thought he heard the dead became the man who rarely ever heard the living. People think and speak in boring, predictable patterns. After a while, it becomes second nature to respond to most everyone without ever truly listening. So few people say anything worthwhile. 

The woman on the basement floor is an exception in every sense of the word. 

"Alex." 

For a man used to a life of cerebral cacophony, the eerie, horrible stillness that briefly descends over him is agonizing. He's kneeling beside her now, barely aware of how he descended the steps to arrive here on the basement floor, his hands around her shoulders. If someone surprised her here, they may still be lying in wait: self-preservation should demand that he protect himself, as he was undoubtedly the intended target of whatever happened to her, and yet he will not leave her side. 

But then she's breathing, and now, so is he. She doesn't seem to be injured, though of course it is impossible to rule out a concussion, or poison, or any other number of invisible ailments. A parade of horribles marches through his mind, only cut off by a deep exhalation from Alex. 

"Richard?" 

He has never had a quiet mind, but when Alex Reagan uses his given name, everything, for one short moment, is blessedly, beatifically calm. 

" _Alex_." The relief in his voice is audible, but there are no recorders, no microphones to record it. "Are you alright? Do you remember what happened?" 

"I came over here to do some work. I was sitting here, reading some papers..."

Alex turns her head, and he follows the line of her gaze to an untidy pile of documents nearby. "Yeah, those papers." She tries to sit up, but he shakes his head. 

"Until we know what happened, I think you should stay still." 

"I feel fine, um, I'm pretty sure I just...fell asleep," she confesses. He watches a deep flush spread slowly across her face. "Oops?" 

"You fell asleep," he repeats. "Is your insomnia really that bad?" 

"Unfortunately," she sighs, and at that, he finds himself finally able to let go. 

"Then I suppose I should say I'm sorry for interrupting your nap. How do you feel?" 

"Well, unless you know of any documented cases of death by embarrassment, I'm okay," she jokes, sitting up. 

"You still may have hit your head," he points out. 

"I feel fine. I mean, I'm exhausted and embarrassed, but fine. I definitely just fell asleep while reading. That's all." 

"I take that to mean you're not at all sure as to whether or not you may have sustained a head injury," he says, crossing his arms over his chest so as not to reach out again, gather her up and hold her close, reassure himself that she is, in fact, alive and unharmed. 

"Rich-- Doctor Strand," she sighs. He wishes she wouldn't call him that, but it's for the best. It helps him keep his distance, emotionally and otherwise. "If it makes you feel better to check me for a concussion, go ahead." 

"Thank you," he says, taking brief refuge in decades-old first-aid training, a momentary distraction from the adrenal response brought on by finding her here like this. She's fine, she's alright, she's unharmed, and no one did this to her, unless he counts himself, center of the strange conspiracy she's found herself in. He regrets, sometimes, that he ever returned her calls, but of course, for so many reasons, if he had to make the choice again he knows he would take the same course. 

The adrenaline has left a vile taste on his tongue, and he desperately seeks something to do with his shaking hands that does not involve pulling her close and running his fingers through her hair. Instead, he declares, "I'm making us both some tea," then stands and strides for the basement stairs. 

"All right," he hears her say. Her footsteps are on the stairs at his back, following him up to the main floor and then to the kitchen, where she tucks herself into the breakfast nook while he busies himself with the teakettle, the mugs, the tea, anything to disguise the nervous energy coursing through him.

Alex, with her reporter's eye for detail, has other plans.

"Are _you_ okay?" 

"What?" 

"You're shaking," Alex points out, and he shoves his hands back into his pockets while he waits for the water to boil. "Is there a break in the investigation? Did something happen? Did you find anything new about the black tapes? About Tiamat, or the Axis Mundi? Did the police find Simon Reese, did you find something new about Coral---" 

"No. There's nothing," he replies, cutting into her questions. This woman-- this plainly beautiful woman-- will be his undoing with all her questions. Does she not understand by now that who he is, the sum of all his parts, is nothing more than a construct of a man barely clinging to sanity, held together by little more than thread? And Alex Reagan, like the old Greek Fates, holds the strings of Richard's life in her hands, deciding when to ask the questions that will unravel him. 

Any moment now, her hand will meet the tabletop in a loud, defiant-- _slap_ , which it does, right on cue. He manages not to flinch, but he did see it coming. "There has to be something." 

"Why?" 

"Because you're always so _calm_ ," Alex says, and he does fight not to laugh at the absurdity of that. "And now you're not, and look, I feel like I haven't slept more than eight hours in the past two weeks and I'm not even recording this, Richard, so please, for my sanity, or what's left of it, _what are you not telling me_?" 

She'll keep asking if he doesn't tell her, but for both their sakes, he won't give her the whole truth, not now. Not ever, if he can help it. "Alex, I-- Alex. Consider the situation. I found you collapsed on the basement floor. You weren't moving. You didn't stir when I came down the stairs. You...you didn't appear to be breathing at first," he sighs, taking off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. After a long moment, the stillness of the room only broken by the first faint whistling sounds from the teakettle and the sound of their breath, he slips his glasses back on and continues to speak. "I immediately suspected the worst: that someone had broken in looking for me or some of my father's things and surprised you here instead. Forgive me if my jump to conclusions has left me a bit... out of sorts." 

This confession, or perhaps the concern, is apparently too much for her. She can only say, "Oh," and slump against the wooden bench, all her fight and fire suddenly gone. 

"I am relieved to find that you're unharmed," he adds, hoping to forestall any further lines of questioning, at least until he is over the shock of thinking her dead. 

"Oh," she repeats, closing her eyes. She now looks near tears, which will not do.

"Alex?" 

"I'm sorry. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm just. So. Tired." 

Once again, against his better judgment, he finds himself moving closer to her. 

"Alex," he says again, settling into the bench across the table from her and lacing his fingers together before they can reach out for her. "How long has it been since you slept?" 

"Um, maybe ten minutes ago?," she jokes weakly, eyes still closed, and he laughs, just a little. "I'm sorry. I'm a mess." 

He should stick to the plan, he knows, the detailed mental outline of Ways In Which It Is Appropriate To Interact With Miss Reagan. But she's here, and she's so lovely, and she's so tired, and perhaps that isn't all his fault but it also isn't outside his ability to help. 

"There's a guest room upstairs. Forget about the tea. Go. Sleep. You probably shouldn't drive, if you're falling asleep in basements." 

She smiles, a thin, watery thing without any real warmth or substance, and shakes her head. "Thank you, but I don't know. I should try to get some work done. I'll just grab some coffee on my way back to the studio." 

More work and more caffeine, of course. Just what a troubled mind needs, and he should know: he chases sleep fruitlessly most nights himself. He leans closer; he tries to look concerned. He's not sure he's done it correctly. It's been such a long time since he had someone to care for, and he hadn't expected to be doing it today. Or ever. It is not on the list of approved interactions, after all. 

"Why do you think you have trouble sleeping?" 

He knows instantly that his approximation of concern has missed the mark. Alex rears back, eyes angry, brows drawn together, while Richard Strand, perpetual human disaster, can't even manage a reasonable facsimile of a human emotion. 

"Oh, good, you've diagnosed me! Let me guess. Apophenia? Trust me, I've already tried telling myself that the monsters under my bed aren't real. It isn't working." 

"Alex," he sighs, "that isn't actually what I meant. The work we're doing, the things we've uncovered-- the things _you've_ uncovered-- they would make it difficult for anyone to rest." 

"You're talking about Maddie Franks." 

"Among other things," he concedes. "My immediate point was that diving back into work without at least trying to rest probably wouldn't be particularly efficacious." 

"I'm fine. I'd rather just...drink that tea you're making and try to make it through until tonight, if it's all the same to you." 

He thinks about protesting-- if only she could see how tired she looks, she'd understand his unusual level of concern for her welfare-- but the kettle is beginning to whistle, and she's an adult who makes her own choices, so instead he shrugs and says, "Suit yourself. The guest room isn't going anywhere." 

"When did you get a guest room, anyway?" 

If she needs a subject change, he'll oblige. "It was Ruby's idea. Her...remodeling is slowly moving upstairs. She said it would make the house easier to sell, when I do eventually let it go. Something about potential buyers being better able to envision the place as a home if it looks like one already. Apparently, unfurnished homes stay on the market longer." 

"Makes sense," Alex agrees, and he settles a mug of tea in front of her and steps back so they're both well out of one another's personal space.

"I have some work to do." 

"I'll be fine," she says. She pulls the mug toward her and breathes in the steam. "Ahh. See? I feel better already." 

"I see," he says, but just in case she isn't, he goes to make sure the guest bed has clean sheets before he begins to work. 

+

In the time that it takes him to make the upstairs bed, field a few phone calls from Ruby, and scan his email, she's fallen asleep again, he notes, when he ducks into the kitchen for some water. And from the way her face is twisted up and her hands balled into fists, this is no peaceful nap on the basement floor. He talks to her, softly at first, encouraging her to wake up on her own so it will be less of a shock, but she stays trapped inside whatever horrors her brain is showing her, and he steps closer.

"Richard?" she says, still asleep but reaching out for him. 

Her voice is so plaintive, so lost, that he freezes for a moment. Does she hear his voice in her head as often as he hears hers in his? He shakes the thought away.

"Alex," he says, much louder, and she is fully awake now, hitting the table hard with her legs as she startles out of her nightmare. It upsets the cooled mug of tea, but he hardly cares. 

"Oh, god," she groans, as the liquid spreads across the table and floor. 

He'll clean it up later. Right now, he wants her to know that she is safe, and impulsively, irresponsibly, in violation of several tenets of his list of approved ways to interact with her, he reaches out, settling his fingers over her shoulder. Her hand comes up to meet his almost immediately, holding on tight. Her fingers are wet from the tea she has spilled and it is absurdly, horribly, fatally charming. Falling in love with this woman over a mug of spilled tea is not only not _on_ the list, it is the _antithesis_ of the list; preventing this exact scenario is the goddamn _raison d'être_ of the list, and yet, here he stands, holding her hand, irrevocably, awfully, completely in love with her. 

This is terrible. It's terrible, and it will never work. He should tell her to go home, or back to the studio, he should call her a cab, or he should grab whatever relevant files he needs and just abandon this house to her, return to Chicago, return to relative sanity, tell her goodbye again and steadfastly refuse to renege on that this time no matter how persistent she is. Any minute now, he tells himself firmly, that is exactly what he will do. In the end, of course, he does nothing of the kind, tethered as he is to this place and this moment by Alex Reagan's slender, tea-stained fingers. He would not have previously described himself as a weak-willed-- quite the opposite, actually-- but nevertheless, here he stands, an exit strategy fully formed in his mind but unwilling or unable to execute it as he holds Alex's hand, focusing on her breath, how it normalizes as she exhales terror and inhales strength. Eventually, she lets go of his hand, mumbles an apology, and he moves away. 

"I think you should go," he'll say now, but for a man who has not infrequently been described as _a heartless monster_ by much of the paranormal investigators' community, he is woefully bad at playing the part at the present time. 

What he does say, therefore, is, "Are you okay?" 

"No," she admits, covering her face with her hands. There will be tea all over her face now. He'd kiss it away if he could. "My nightmares haven't been great, but that one was...particularly gruesome. God, I need sleep. Real, good sleep." 

He is fully prepared to say, "I'll call you a cab so you can go home, then," but what leaves his traitorous mouth instead is, "The offer of the guest room still stands." 

None of this is going as planned. 

"I think I'll just have another nightmare if I try," she sighs, surveying the disaster she's made with the tea. "At least let me help you clean this up first. I need a distraction." 

"Alex--" 

" _Please_." 

"All right," he says, holding up his hands. If she wants to stay, he is powerless to stop her.

+

After the tea situation has been resolved satisfactorily, albeit not without another spontaneous nap from Alex, she finally relents and trudges upstairs to attempt some sleep. This is the best opportunity he'll have today to fly the coop, as it were: to run away from all this, as though there's anywhere he could go to escape from her voice and the way it echoes in his mind. So of course, instead of leaving, he makes himself an early dinner, changes clothes, and settles in to do some work. 

The printed letter from Coralee awaits, and after he unfolds it, he fishes around nearby for his recently acquired copy of _Vanity Fair_ to begin the process of deciphering it. If-- when-- Alex discovers that he's been in contact with Coralee, she's going to be very upset. He'll tell her it wasn't any of her business-- which it isn't, he reminds himself sternly, because regardless of any unfortunate feelings he may have developed for her, they are still colleagues and nothing more-- and she'll likely insist that it is, and he'll coldly say that she's not welcome to investigate the black tapes anymore, and she'll hotly reply that this was all part of the deal they made, and they'll stubbornly freeze each other out for the better part of a week until one of them breaks down and picks up the phone. Neither one will apologize, of course, because neither of them will admit that they were in the wrong. 

It is...not at all unlike marriage was, in a way, and he can't start thinking of her that way, he just can't. With a tired groan, he sets aside the letter and the book, resting his head against the chair at his back, and lists off the reasons he should move past this.

  * Age difference: if one owns clothes older than the person one is seeing, it is not a thing to pursue;
  * Life experience difference: how could two people with such radically different cultural touchstones be a good fit? For all he knows, she plays that absurd Pokemon game in her spare time, a thing he only vaguely understands now because the cartoon's high popularity in the early 90s led to a rise in cries of demonic influence from the Christian right;
  * Fundamental irreconcilable differences with regards to philosophical underpinnings, to wit: she believes in demons at this point, he's fairly certain;
  * Estranged daughter, younger than Alex but by an uncomfortable margin;
  * The possibility of some strange cult stalking him and everyone he loves: this morning's false alarm in the basement could have been so much worse, and putting her in further danger really does not bear thinking about; 
  * Coralee, Coralee, Coralee, and all the heartache that came with her.



All in all, a terrible idea. Best left alone. 

He hopes she's sleeping well up there, though, and maybe he should check in, just in case she's having another nightmare? 

He closes the book with a frustrated snap. Absolutely not. Who's to say she'd even want him, anyway? She is as aware as he is that he has enough baggage to fill an entire barge of shipping containers in the Seattle harbor. 

"Enough," he tells himself, and opens _Vanity Fair_ again. He makes quick work of deciphering the letter, frowning all the while as the Horn of Tiamat resurfaces in Coralee's writings. He thought, long ago, that he'd heard the last of all that, but lately it seems that he will never be rid of it. 

"Doctor Strand?" 

He jumps. Alex stands across the room, wrapped up in the old quilt from the guest room. "I'm sorry." 

He shakes his head. "Don't be. I didn't expect to see you so soon." 

"Couldn't sleep," she shrugs. 

"Neither could I," and she doesn't even remark that it's a strange comment for him to make when it's still somewhat light out, so he knows she's still out of sorts.

"Well, I hope my insomnia isn't contagious," she sighs, making her way to the couch.

"I have never seen evidence to suggest as much." 

It is, apparently, a poor attempt at humor; she doesn't even so much as pretend to laugh. Instead, she attempts to rearrange her hair by breathing at it until it obeys, which of course, it does, and his new habit of finding these behaviors endearing instead of annoying really needs to come to an end. He told her once that he wasn't that easy to manipulate; he has woefully underestimated his own willpower.

She glances over at him, curiously eying the papers in his lap. "What are you looking for?" 

"My father was investigating another dig site shortly before he died," he explains, which is true enough. She doesn't have to know that Coralee is the one who told him about it. "I'm trying to ascertain where it was." 

"The Watchers and the Horn of Tiamat again?" she asks, and he nods. 

"He has some notes here. Something about the key being in the missing parts of the Enûma Eliš." 

"I-- don't know what that is," she admits. He shrugs. It's gratifying in a way, Alex looking to him for explanations when she could just as easily find them herself, and he digs around under some papers, looking for a book on this particular subject. 

"I'm not surprised. It's an obscure writing, at least for those who aren't students of mythology." 

She wrinkles her nose; his heart squeezes in his chest. 

"If you're going to hand me that--" 

"Considering that you'd rather _breathe_ your hair into submission than free your hands from their quilted prison to do the work, I thought I'd simply read it to you." 

"Perfect," she grins, and he can't help but laugh as he searches for the appropriate paragraph. 

"The Enûma Eliš, or Babylonian creation myth, was written in one-thousand lines on seven clay tablets, most of which have been found in their entirety. The fifth, however, was recovered only in fragments, and..." 

He reads for a paragraph or two, expecting her to stop and free herself from the quilt so she can ask him to repeat everything for the podcast. But she doesn't, and when he finally does stop reading and look over again, she is sound asleep, her face entirely untroubled by the semblance of any nightmares. He takes the opportunity he is presented and studies her face. It may not be on the list, but neither was letting her fall asleep here. He's in for a penny, in for a pound, and in for a quite a lot of trouble if he keeps this up. 

But Alex Reagan in repose is as beautiful as he could have imagined, lost at last in peaceful dreams. He should turn off the lights now and slip quietly upstairs, leave her to her dreaming. Who knows how long it's been since she's had some rest. But then she sighs in her sleep, a happy, contented sound, and he forgets how to breathe, or think, or move. Just as before, when her slippery fingers held onto his own, he knows he won't be able to leave her side. Instead, he settles for moving into the chair, papers in hand, where he can keep his silent vigil nearby. 

+

It's well past dawn when he wakes, far later than the early hour he generally calls morning. His vision without his glasses is blurry, but not so much so that he cannot tell that across the room, Alex is already awake and looking in his direction. 

"Good morning," he says, just as she does the same, and he allows himself to return the bright smile she gives him. As he slips on his glasses, that smile of hers grows in focus and intensity, at least until she yawns, a full body sort of affair, arms over her head, toes over the arm of the couch, nose wrinkled, and an exhalation that's almost a moan. 

Oh, no. 

Suddenly, none of the reasons that this is a bad idea are currently worth a damn. They have been weighed on the scale of his heart and found very, very wanting, which might as well be the word of the day as far as his body is concerned. How does anyone stretch like that in the company of another human being, unless one is currently _very intimately involved_ with that person? How does a person of relatively average height stretch across a whole couch that way? Then again, he considers, she's barely thirty. She probably does _yoga_. This is _awful_. 

She seems to notice him again; he attempts to sit up a little straighter. Belatedly, he wonders what he looks like, and if he should have shaved yesterday. 

"What time is it?" 

"Seven thirty," he says, looking at his watch, grateful for the excuse to look at something that isn't her before she notices him staring. "Are you hungry?" 

"Yes, actually," she says, and he nods. 

"All right," he says, standing, his body protesting as he uncurls it from the confinement of the chair.

There are pivotal moments throughout history that shape the course of things to come. Small decisions, almost meaningless to those making them at the time, can, with the benefit of time and distance, become the single decision point on which entire civilizations perish or thrive. He isn't calling it a premonition by any means, but he strongly suspects he's living in one of those moments right now, that any number of possible futures hang in the balance of what he does next. 

It's only _breakfast_ , though, and anyway, there are always an infinite number of futures spinning out from any given situation, he rationalizes, so he shrugs off the strange feeling that has settled over him and heads for the kitchen, assembling ingredients from the refrigerator. It's only breakfast. Never mind that he used to make breakfast for Coralee when they were first married, never mind that he would get up an hour before she woke just to make sure that she was welcomed to the waking world by freshly squeezed orange juice and croque madame. It was impractical, but it was her favorite; people have done far more impractical things for love. She would kiss him good morning, tell him that he shouldn't have, and take her plate from his hands, always looking over her shoulder as she walked away with an expression on her face like she was sorry for something, but could never quite say what or why. 

Alex, when she appears in the kitchen doorway, does not look at him that way. Instead, she wears a sleepy smile and dark hair that is flatter on one side than the other. He looks away. 

"So, what's for breakfast?" 

"Eggs Benedict." 

"Oh, wow." 

He frowns, then, realizing that in all the time they've spent together, he's never bothered to pay that much attention to what she eats. "You're not a vegetarian?" 

"Nope. Just, um, unused to an actual meal for breakfast," she laughs. He wonders what constitutes breakfast in the typical life of Alex Reagan. He would suspect something substantial, given all the time she spent chastising him for his protein bars, but given the curious way she's surveying his handiwork with the melting butter and eggs, perhaps not. "Wait. Are you actually making your own Hollandaise?" 

"Are you telling me you don't?" 

She's laughing now, and he sneaks a sideways glance at her while he whisks egg and butter together. She's lovely when she laughs, and most of the time, and he focuses more intentionally on the Hollandaise. "Uh, I think the last thing I successfully cooked was a piece of toast, and even that was a little burned." 

"I see." 

"Hey, it runs in the family," she protests, and now she's leaning against the counter as she watches him work, a little closer to him than she was before. "I come by it honestly. My mother can barely make cereal." 

Mentally, he strikes a line through "Sharing personal details irrelevant to debunking paranormal phenomena" on the list of things he shouldn't do with her. He might as well. It seems he's going to do it regardless of whether it's a good idea or not. 

"I could have been described similarly, once. I taught myself to cook when I was in high school." 

"You mean you weren't too busy leading meetings of the Junior Skeptic Society?" 

Sleep, it seems, has been good for her, and what's good for the her is going to be the death of him, as her tone has suddenly taken on a definitively flirtatious note. Once more, he revisits the long list of reasons why anything unprofessional would be a bad idea. Older. Potential Pokemon. Estranged wife. Ancient wardrobe. 

And yet, here she stands, hair tousled from sleep, practically lounging against his countertop. He can think of several better ways for her hair to end up that way, and absolutely none of them are on the approved list of professional activities. But she's waiting for a reply, and he won't keep her waiting. He knows; he tried for three months. It did not work well. 

"Ha. Not exactly," he says, despite himself, though he does at least manage to stop himself from giving her any more details. She's already too close to the truth of who he used to be, thanks to Cheryl and her exhortation to ask about a boy and a river. He dodged that one, bobbed and weaved like a fighter in a ring, but he knows Alex too well: she will dive in anyway, and she will find the truth one day. For now, though, she doesn't press him with questions, and instead of her voice there's just the sizzling sound of bacon in the skillet and the bubbling of water in the saucier. In fact, he has the sense, as he focuses on assembling their breakfast, that she's staring. There's a not a lot in her line of sight that she could be looking at, and somehow he doubts that breakfast merits that level of attention. 

Well. That's interesting. 

He adjusts his posture so that he's not slumping over the stove, but instead standing at his full height. He's fit for his age, or anyone's; she's an adult, she can look if she wants. His lower back, still unhappy from the way he slept in the chair, gives a twinge, and he tries not to openly grimace. This is a game for a much younger man, one with far less baggage, but he seems to be playing it regardless. Caught between the Scylla of his own disastrous past and the Charybdis of his feelings for this woman, all he can do is tread water and hope he stays afloat.

"Oh. So that's how you poach an egg." 

"You really _don't_ cook, do you?" 

"Like I said," she laughs. "Toast is a challenge. But-- my poor culinary skills aside, can I help with anything? I feel like a bad houseguest right now." 

"There's not much left to do," he shrugs. "But if you'd like coffee with your breakfast, there's hot water in the teakettle, an old pour over coffeemaker in the cabinet to your left, and I believe Ruby left some ground coffee in the pantry." 

" _Coffee_. Perfect. Thank god for Ruby." 

"I agree with the sentiment, if not in the existence of a mystical third party whose capricious whims shape all of human reality." 

"You know what I meant," she teases, laughing, and bumps him with her hips, seemingly unaware of the intimacy of the gesture, or perhaps she was and did it anyway, which is an entirely different sort of baggage to unpack. 

So now he's standing here like an idiot, not moving, not saying anything. He's openly staring at her at this point, and he should stop, but then again, she's returning his gaze with equal intensity. The list of reasons why this will never work decrescendos to nothing in the back of his mind, drowned out entirely by a hurricane of better bad ideas. And central to all of them, both the calm and the storm, is Alex Reagan, her body angled towards his, face turned up, waiting, watching. From the look on her face and the way she's standing, he knows that he could kiss her now and she would absolutely return it in kind, with all the aching, sad desperation of two people who have let themselves be lonely too long.

And maybe he should, and maybe he will. Maybe their breakfast gets cold, and they fall behind on their work, because they found a better way to spend the morning. Time is finite; this short period of being is all he has, an unknown amount of allocated time between the twin poles of the day he was born and the day he will die. It is ever looming on the horizon, and everything he is, everything they are, is defined entirely by that. So why not make the most of it? He's felt it for a very long time, after all, this pull toward her. Longer than he cares to admit. She has a personal gravity that is becoming increasingly difficult to resist and impossible to comprehend, especially now that she is part of his daily life. Alex Reagan is his singularity: the closer he gets to her, the less his solid understanding of the world around him seems to matter, or even function. She shakes the foundations of his universe, she knocks the planet of his life out of the orbit he has so painstakingly chosen, and he has touched the face of doubt more often in the past year with her than he has in the preceding twenty. 

It's terrible, and wonderful, and fascinating, and stupid. 

That line about the beauty and wonder of the universe, that line that he's used a thousand times in interviews, at conferences, with other women, always without ever once really considering its weight: when he said it to her, that day in his office, he could have held the meaning of it in his hands, like he was Atlas holding up the world, keeping it safe for her, as though he needed to. He doesn't. Just look at her. Even now, unsure of what will happen next in this moment, she stands straight and proud, ready for whatever comes her way. Life may test her will, sleepless nights may shake her, but she will persevere. How could she not? She is Alex Reagan, conquerer of worlds, and especially of his. Look upon her works, ye mighty, and despair. But at the end of this story, he knows, it will not be Alex Reagan with her head sunk in the sand, and that more than anything, more than his reasons, his lists, is what keeps him from closing this small distance between them.

Far from the mighty things they used to be, Richard's foundations are already beginning to crack. The longer he is near her, the worse it becomes. He thought he could withstand it. He survived Coralee, after all, but then, Coralee had come along before he had finished building. He was still a renovation, a work in progress, and her departure was the catalyst he needed to complete this project of self. He has been the architect of his own masterpiece for so long that he had almost forgotten to worry about his own structural integrity, but then Alex Reagan left him eleven voicemails, and even before he met her, he understood that she would be a threat to this person he has worked so terribly hard to construct. She has the tenacity of spirit to find all his building plans, to memorize his blueprints. He is Jericho and she is a horn; all she has to do is breathe and he will surely come crumbling down. 

And what will be left, then? What becomes of Richard Strand after Alex Reagan takes him apart, brick by tediously laid brick? Does he return to Richie, beloved younger brother of Cheryl, seer of strange shadow men and finder of murdered friends, the boy who was quiet, kind, who could not tell a lie, and believed in things unseen? Who saw what others didn't, who _knew_ without reason or proof, and who, for his trouble, was frequently rewarded with the strap, to say nothing of accusations of murder. If Alex has her way, if she digs deep enough, turns over all the stones of his new foundation, is that who he will be again? 

His body is here with Alex, but his mind is many decades and several thousand miles away. He still remembers the hard plastic of the chair in the interrogation room, can feel the cold chill of the steel table his hands rested on even now, in the warmth of this kitchen in Seattle. 

__

"How did you know where the body was, Richie? Come on, boy, tell us the truth." 

"I told you, I saw it."

"When you killed him? Is that when you saw it?" 

" **No**. I saw it **here**." 

The boy he was points to his temples, just as the door opens and Howard Strand bursts in, ending the interrogation of his son. 

The whole thing is on video. Of course. It is grainy, old, almost the quality of a home movie instead of professional footage, but it exists, in all it's mid-1970's glory. Of all the phantasms he has been asked to debunk over the years, it is only the specter of that tape that truly terrifies him. Even now, knowing with reasonable certainty that he acquired all the existing tapes years ago and with neither fanfare nor ceremony burned them all, even after all of that, he worries that one will surface. That someone will find the proof that even Richard Strand is susceptible to the scourge of belief in the strange and purportedly unexplainable that plagues the rest of common humanity. 

If a system isn't working, it must change or it must fail. It is the same with nature: adapt and thrive, or stagnate and die. It's a perfectly natural, logical process, one that has run the world for thousands of years. And little Richie Strand was the thing that didn't fit, the sore thumb, the wrench in the otherwise orderly cogs of the universe. So he changed. He adapted. And then and only then, he _thrived_. Far from the scared adolescent who futilely insisted that he _just knew_ how to find the body of his dead friend, Richard Strand, founder of the Strand Institute, debunker of all paranormal activity worldwide, is exceedingly confident, controlled, methodical, and articulate. He is inimitable. He knows with one-hundred percent certainty that there is nothing supernatural in the world, even the things that once happened to him. Is it even fair to call this personality a facade, after a while? This is who he is. This is _all_ he is. He transformed so fully into this new self so long ago that he barely remembers what life was like before it, and it has more than served its purpose. It has kept him safe, even from Alex Reagan and all her inquisitions. Or has it?

 _But is this who you want to be? Is this really who you are?_

Those two terrible questions are the only ghosts he believes in, twin phantoms that have haunted him for most of his adult life. Long ago, he buried the seed of doubt they sprouted from deep in the recesses of his memory, but like an invasive species, they took hold and thrived regardless. They have come to him at different moments over the years, some good, some bad, but always speaking with the same voice. He is defending his dissertation, and he has to ask the professor to please repeat her question, he's so sorry, he didn't quite hear, and it's not nerves, it's that voice in his head again, soft but insistent. Or he is in a crowd of people at a conference in London, and instead of the words of the plenary speaker, he hears the voice instead. Or perhaps he is in the police station after Coralee disappeared, or he is alone in his office in Chicago, or on a plane, or in bed alone, or anywhere, anytime. It doesn't matter. The voice doesn't discriminate. It doesn't care how many times he has answered it, alone in the dark at night. _Yes_ , this is who he wants to be. _Yes_ , this is who he is. 

_But is this who you want to be? Is this really who you are?_

Is it self-doubt if the voice in your head isn't your own? It's always the same, but it has never been his, this voice that he has heard echoing in his mind for years now, this curious but gentle voice that is colored with such a deep sadness that it would have undoubtedly overwhelmed the softer, kinder boy he used to be. But that boy never heard these questions, and the man who does, this logical, rational man, certainly never expected he would hear that voice anywhere except inside the guarded fortress of his own mind. Anything else would surely run counter to the laws of nature, the well-ordered eternal structures of the cosmos. 

Then again, singularities have always had a way of disrupting the normal patterns of the universe. And so it is that across the years that stand between them, across distance, time, and all logic, impossibly, improbably, over and over and again and again, the voice of Alex Reagan has been asking Richard Strand the same questions, and one day, he knows, he will have to give her an answer. 

But not today. 

"Breakfast is ready," he manages to say, finally, after what feels like years, and she nods. The gravitational pull of her is intoxicating, but receding as she readjusts her trajectory and walks away.

 _But is this who you want to be? Is this really who you are?_

She doesn't ask aloud, not yet. But she will, and when that day comes, his answer, he knows, really will change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes & references:
> 
>  _master of his own fate_ : Allusion to "Invictus," a poem by William Earnest Henley.
> 
>  _Scylla; Charybdis_ : The original "between a rock and a hard place," from The Odyssey, Scylla is a giant sea monster and Charybdis a giant whirlpool. Their close proximity to one another makes it an extraordinary challenge for any mariner to navigate through safely. 
> 
> _Pokemon_ : Richard remembers correctly here. There WAS a huge outcry from the US Christian right in the early 90s about Pokemon, which they claimed (in badly formatted emails that used far too much Comic Sans and circulated largely on AOL) were actually demons. (Spoiler alert: they aren't.) 
> 
> _Jericho_ , horn, walls crumbling, etc: From the book of Joshua. Joshua, on orders from Moses, led the Israelites to victory against the walled Canaanite city of Jericho by surrounding it and having priests blow ram's horns, whereupon the city's impenetrable walls crumbled to the ground. 
> 
> _Atlas holding up the world_ : Greek mythology. There are two myths about Atlas. In one, the world is a punishment; in another, the world is a gift. Either way, he holds it up. 
> 
> _The Fates (Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos)_ : Greeks again. Each Fate plays a role in a mortal's life, which is represented by thread: one spins the thread; one holds the thread; one cuts it. 
> 
> _Look upon her works, ye mighty, and despair_ : A gratuitous "Ozymandias" reference, a short poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Personal headcanon: one of Strand's favorites (albeit not as much as Invictus, probably).
> 
>  _Time is finite, etc_ : A few badly phrased and exceedingly oversimplified references to Heidegger's _Sein und Zeit_ (English: _Being and Time_ ), for those of us who have stared at that picture of Strand on TBTP's website for too many hours. (It's such a well-chosen thing for him to hide behind; I am honestly only surprised that he is not reading it in the original German. Gosh, I just love this podcast, even though it's probably going to kill me tomorrow with 212.)
> 
> \--  
> Next time, on The Black Tapes (fanfic edition): Alex tries to get some sleep, Richard tries to maintain some emotional distance, and both of them fail pretty miserably at both of those things. Stay with us!


	3. 2A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex tries-- and fails-- to get some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Alex has a particularly graphic dream (is it a dream, though?) in this chapter.

In the week after her impromptu slumber party at Strand's, Alex finds that her insomnia returns in full force. She has one beautiful day of clarity and calm, all of which disintegrates abruptly as soon as her head hits the pillow in her own apartment. 

Frankly? It sucks. 

She trudges through the week, uninspired and irritable. Directly contradicting Doctor Bernier's strict orders not to do to anything _spooky_ just before bed, she manages to catch a few hours of sleep every night by playing raw footage of her interviews with Strand.

_Listeners, I know this sounds bad. But we've received more than a few messages from many of you over the course of this investigation indicating that a large portion of our listeners would, and I'm directly quoting here, "listen to Doctor Strand read Yelp reviews for every restaurant on the planet," which I'm guessing is the new "I would listen to that man read the phone book." If you don't remember phone books-- you're not missing much. Also, some of you also had some more, ah, colorful suggestions for things you'd like to hear him read, and while I don't disagree, that's...probably not going to help me sleep._

Each day, she grows progressively more irritable as she moves further and further away from her only decent night's sleep in recent memory. Each night, she tosses and turns, alternating between sweating under blankets that are suddenly the temperature of the sun's surface and freezing through the onset of an instantaneous winter as soon as she struggles out from beneath her sheets.

And then, on Friday, when she feels like it's been months, not days, since she's slept through the night, Strand calls. She answers on the first ring. 

"Hello, Alex," his voice rumbles through the phone. 

She closes her eyes and resolutely does not think about that moment last week, or any imaginary moments her brain has conjured up since, moments where they take things in a very different direction in that kitchen. 

"I've found some more things in my father's papers," he continues. "There are several boxes-- too many to move to the studio. I thought if you-- and Nic, of course-- had some time this weekend, you might want to come look through them." 

"If you're going out of town and you needed a housesitter, you could have just asked," she teases, but Strand, unfortunately, is all business today, and he doesn't take the bait. 

"Nothing of the kind. I'll be here as well, and I plan to go through the materials regardless of you or Nic. I merely thought it might provide some... interesting content for your show." 

"Of course," Alex sighs. When she last saw Nic, he had been hunched over his desk, deep in TANIS mytharc. He will absolutely come with her if she asks, she knows, but if she's honest with herself, she doesn't want him there. She wants another moment like the one they missed last week. She wants another bite at the apple, so to speak, that forbidden fruit that will absolutely get her evicted from this garden, or at least, will earn her a lecture from Nic. She bites her lip. 

"Well, Nic's pretty tied up with his other show this weekend, but if you don't mind me hanging around alone? Or...I suppose I could ask some interns, if you think it's more than a two-person collection of things." 

She suggests the interns only because she doesn't want to look too obvious, too eager, and she holds her breath until he replies. 

"As long as you promise not to collapse on my floor," he says. "And interns won't be necessary. I think we can handle it." 

"Okay," she laughs, letting the laughter disguise her relieved exhale. "And I promise not to fall asleep on your floor. But I make no promises about the couch." 

There's a beat, and then his voice comes through again. 

"Have you not been sleeping?" 

_Well, well. Is that a hint of concern, dear listeners?_

"I'm afraid I've gone back to my night-owl ways," she admits. When he doesn't make a reply, she pulls the phone away from her ear, thinking the connection has been lost, but nothing seems amiss. "Richard? Hello?" 

"I'm still here," he says at last. "I suppose I had hoped that getting a decent night's sleep last week had convinced you that you no longer need to be terrified of sleeping." 

"What do you mean, _terrified_?" 

"I know about the chanting, Alex. You aired it on the show." 

"That-- yeah," she says. She feels like someone just let all the air out of her balloon. "Look, I don't care if you think there's no such thing as-- that those are just words. I didn't sound like myself. I can't-- I won't-- do that again." 

"If it helps, you didn't chant last week." 

"How do you know?"

"I was awake for most of the time you were sleeping," he reminds her. 

"That's not the whole time," she protests. "And anyway, I would think you would want me to have more... _evidence_." 

It would be easier to obtain that evidence if she were sleeping next to another person, but she manages not to say that aloud. 

"And I would think you would be level-headed enough not to take one singular event and use the extrapolation of that event to prove that the chanting is a nightly occurrence," he counters. 

"I have no proof that it didn't happen before I started recording myself," she points out, and she hears a deep sigh come through the phone. 

"Alex, I really didn't call you to argue about this." 

"Okay," she says, heaving a sigh of her own, perfectly willing to shut down this argument. She's not about to get disinvited from the only place she's been able to sleep lately. "See you later." 

"Yes. Goodbye." 

"Bye." 

_Well, listeners, if I play this right, I get some quality sleep tonight. On Strand's couch. Alone, obviously. Where else?_

She finds Nick at his desk, right where she left him. 

"I'm going to Strand's," she explains. "He has some boxes of his father's things he'd like to go through. Says there might be something we can use for the show." 

"Sure," Nic says. When he bends to close his laptop and pick up his messenger bag, she waves him off. 

"You stay!" she blurts out, and when Nic frowns up at her, she shifts from foot to foot, nervous. "Um, I don't want to take you away from TANIS. Strand and I can tackle these boxes, really." 

Nic looks from his laptop bag to her face. "Are you sure?" 

"Of course," she says, too quickly, and then she winks at him. "Besides. I know you're probably waiting for another call from the mysterious MK." 

"Haha, very funny," Nic grouses, but he's smiling in a way that tells Alex her comment has found its mark. "Good luck with those boxes."

"Thanks!" she calls, already halfway out the door. 

If Strand is surprised that she shows up at his house all the way in Burien less than two hours after he called her, he doesn't show it. He waves her in from the evening's drizzling rain, and she gratefully brushes past him to slip off her rain boots and shed her light jacket. 

"Where do you have everything set up?" 

"The living room again," he shrugs. "It seemed better than the basement." 

"Sounds good," she agrees, and heads in to take up her preferred spot on the couch. 

The boxes are a little bit of a disappointment, if she's honest: they find some more cryptic references to Tiamat, to Babylonian myths, a book or two on sacred geometry, letters that might be coded but which also might just be a stack of incredibly boring correspondence...and that's all they find in a solid hour of working. Worse still, Strand is entirely in business mode, and the audio she's gotten so far probably won't yield more than a minute or so of usable material. She hopes she or Nic can find a gem or two when she returns to the studio. 

Sometime around eight o'clock, she looks up from her reading to find that Strand is staring off into the distance, the open book on his lap forgotten. 

"Thrilling reading for you, too, huh," she says, and he shakes himself a bit before he looks over at her. 

"I'm afraid that so far this is not proving as useful as I'd hoped." 

"We've got a few boxes left to go. We might still find something," Alex says, giving him a hopeful smile which quickly shifts into a frown as her stomach gurgles. "Hmm. But maybe... after we get some dinner?" 

_Dear listeners, I either just invited myself to stay for dinner... or I asked him out. Either way: wow, Alex._

"Of course. I can always make more Hollandaise," he offers, a hint of a smile playing at his mouth. It's the first sign she's seen all evening of the person who made her breakfast last week, and she's glad to see him. 

"I'm sure you can," she grins. "But if I'm honest, I haven't eaten a lot today, so...maybe something a little more substantial?" 

_Go big or go home, I guess, listeners._

"I think I can manage that," he says, and she raises her eyebrows in surprise. 

"You're really going to cook?" She manages, somehow, not to add, _for me_ , like this is some kind of extremely nerdy paranormal researchers' date night, not that she's opposed, at all, but... _ethics_. Maybe Nic should have come along after all-- she's starting to think she shouldn't be around Strand unsupervised. "I figured we'd just order takeout."

"I recall that you seemed to enjoy the eggs Benedict," he supplies. 

_I would have enjoyed it more if we'd made out in the kitchen for a while, but yeah, it was a great breakfast._

She waves her hands. "Hey, I'm not afraid of your cooking, I just don't want to make you do any extra work." 

"It's fine," he assures her, and with that, he levers himself up off the floor, rearranging stacks of papers so he can walk through the piles. "Don't get up," he adds, when she makes to follow. "This will be very simple. And I won't need any help-- I remember your story of burnt toast." 

"Ha ha," she calls. 

In a few minutes, she can hear him moving around the kitchen. There are some rustling noises, the sound of cabinets being opened and water running, but eventually her brain phases it out as she returns to her reading. Most of it is still boring document after boring document, but she's absorbed enough that she doesn't notice that time is passing until about thirty minutes later, when Strand reappears in the doorway. "Dinner's ready." 

"Oh! Okay," Alex says, putting her papers aside. 

She isn't sure what she expected, but at the small breakfast nook in the corner of the kitchen, Strand has placed two full plates of some kind of delicious-smelling pasta, two small bowls of salad, long-stemmed glasses, and an unopened bottle of wine. 

"Wow," she says, taking in the sight. 

_It's season two of The Black Tapes, where we always say: if it looks like a date, and it acts like a date, you probably shouldn't sit down, because you're trying to be ethical._

"I thought it might be good to take a break," he says, warily, watching her as though he isn't sure this is such a great idea. For her part, she is absolutely certain that it's a terrible idea, so of course she charges straight ahead.

"Sure. This looks perfect," she assures him, and settles in. It's not unethical to be a good guest, after all. 

As he opens the wine, pouring them each a glass, she starts in on her salad and tries to push any thoughts of romance from her mind. This is purely professional; this is dinner with a colleague. Never mind the thrill up her spine as their fingers brush around the glass of wine he offers her. 

She concentrates on eating for the moment instead, taking a break from the salad to try her pasta. As her tongue registers the flavor of it, she has to close her eyes to savor whatever it is that she's eating. "Oh my god," she says, after reluctantly swallowing her first bite. "This is amazing." 

"I'm glad to hear it," he replies, after a sip of wine. She's pretty sure there was a smile hiding behind that wine glass. "Have you had it before?" 

She shakes her head, unwilling to reply and delay eating another bite of pasta. 

"It's called _cacio é pepe_ ," he explains, and she notes that his Italian is pretty good, which, of course it is. "It means 'cheese and pepper.'" 

"I had no idea cheese and pepper could taste this good," she says. "You're a really great cook, you know." 

"You seem perpetually surprised by that." 

"Well-- yeah, I guess I am," she admits. She takes a moment to taste the wine, thinking through her reply instead of just forging ahead as usual. "I think it has to do with context." 

"How do you mean?" 

"Most of our interactions have been in the context of our investigations," she points out, gesturing with her fork, tines aiming at him. "And-- I don't think it would surprise you to learn that most people, when confronted with your professional persona, find you...extremely focused on your work." 

His face betrays nothing, but something in his voice hints at disappointment. "You think I'm single-minded." 

"In a way, sometimes. Maybe," she says, turning it over in her head. He watches her with a curious expression on his face, eyes wider than usual behind his glasses. She smiles, then, and raises her wine glass. "I'm not saying it's a bad thing. And anyway, it takes one to know one, right?" 

"Thank you for saving me the trouble of stating the obvious," he drawls, but he returns her smile and lifts his glass. "To indefatigable journalists." 

"To tenacious skeptics," she says. Maybe it's the wine, or maybe she really shouldn't be around him unsupervised, but she _winks_ at him before she takes a sip. 

_This may sound like flirting, listeners, but I assure you that it is totally and completely professional. I mean, it's as professional as a few glasses of wine and an intimate meal made by your handsome colleague can possibly be, anyway._

They talk, then. Small talk, she realizes, half an hour into a discussion of literary criticism and modern media, just isn't a good fit for them, but arguing over the death of the author for thirty minutes while they neglect their dinner in favor of more wine and a fair amount of impassioned debate...that, that they can do as easily as breathing, apparently. 

Hamlet," she exclaims, reaching for her glass of wine. "Hamlet's my favorite. You really should have guessed that." 

"Should I, now?" 

She winks at him and lifts her glass, and a flicker of something she can only think to describe as _delight_ ghosts across his face. "Of course. It's only one of the best ghost stories in all of Western literature, after all." 

That fleeting delight manifests fully now in the form a full-throated laugh, and Alex considers that if she had ever won a lottery of any kind, it might still never feel as good as this does. She props her chin on her hand. He has a beautiful laugh. It's a shame people don't hear it more often. 

_How should I describe the sound of a real, genuine laugh from one Richard Strand, listeners? It was like...coming in from the cold, the way you're just sort of instantly warm all over. It was that. Only...it was better._

This is fine, really. 

"We should...get back to work," he says eventually, the words slowly leaving his mouth. 

_I'm just imagining that reluctance, right, listeners? Is it possible that I'm not the only one who's really enjoying this in a slightly more than professional way?_

"Yeah," she sighs, settling her empty wine glass on the table as she stands. "You're right. I'll help you clean up. It's the least I can do, after you made such an amazing dinner." 

"If you insist," he shrugs. "But try not to fall asleep at the sink this time." 

"Okay, okay. You wash, I'll rinse and dry?" 

"All right," he agrees, and they set to work, silently at first, but of course that doesn't last long: between the wine and her insatiable curiosity about the mystery of this man, there was no way she was keeping quiet. 

"So, I have a question," she says, taking a soapy plate he offers her and dunking it under the hot water. "You said you taught yourself to cook in high school. Why did you decide to learn?" 

"Hmm. Why not?" 

"That's not an answer," she says, nudging him with her elbow. "Come on. What was it? Class project? Boredom? Science experiment? A way of impressing potential prom dates?" 

"Nothing so glamorous," he drawls, and then the smile that she had been enjoying so thoroughly begins to fade. "My mother was sick, and it was one of the ways I could help. My father, as you may have gathered by now, wasn't home very often, and Cheryl was already doing more than her share. It was the least I could do." 

_If someone wants to bilocate me away from here so I can nurse my embarrassment with some ice cream, I'm down._

"That's-- I'm sorry I asked." 

"Don't be," he sighs. "It was a long time ago. And they're not...they're not all entirely unpleasant memories. If I hadn't liked it, I wouldn't have kept it up, all this time." 

"Well, in that case, I suppose the better question would be, how did you get so good at it," she asks, and that, at least, does coax a hint of that delightful smile back to his lips. 

"It's a combination of my interests. It's science, but it's also an integral component of culture-- often because of science, but that's a longer discussion." He smiles, then, in a way that is quite different from before, and Alex suddenly understands what people mean when they say that someone is _devilishly handsome_. "And maybe you were closer to the mark with your prom suggestion that you know." 

"Is that so?" 

He shakes his head and laughs, staring out the window over the sink like he's watching a movie of old memories. "Alex, I went to college at the height of the Women's Liberation Movement. A man who wanted to be in the kitchen while women were outside making change and debating politics was...an interesting diversion, we'll say." 

"You're kidding," she laughs, looking up at him, but he doesn't even bother to look in her direction, he just concentrates on washing their wine glasses, smirking all the while. "Well, well, well." 

"I'm joking, of course." He hands her a wine glass, not even bothering to suppress a chuckle at the expression on her face, which must be a mixture of surprise and flustered amusement. " _Mostly_." 

"Oh no, you can't get away that easily. I'm onto you now," she says. "I'm going to have to do a special episode for the show, you know. Richard Strand: The College Years. The tagline will be _getting girls, not ghosts_." 

"That's terrible," he says, but he's laughing as he says it. "I don't believe in ghosts, so how could I have gotten them?" 

_Well, you've certainly got me,_ she doesn't say. Instead, she just shakes her head and finishes drying the last wine glass. "Have it your way. But this is a missed opportunity," she says, absolutely referring only to her joke of an episode and not to the fact that all of this banter will only earn them a few hours of work instead of a few hours pursuing _other_ opportunities. 

"However will I live with my decision," he intones. She does not swat playfully at him with the dishtowel in response as she leaves the kitchen, but it is a near thing. 

_I know you're going to be shocked to hear this, listeners, but that fantastic dinner, and the wine, and the totally-professional, totally-not-flirting about Strand's college years...didn't exactly help motivate me to do any more work. But to be fair, it didn't seem to help him, either._

After dinner and dishes, she thinks she manages to review just two documents. Her mind, traitor that it is, keeps taunting her with thoughts of Strand's college years. She's not sure if it's the glasses of wine, or the late hour, or her brain remembering that this is a safe place to sleep, but whatever the reason, after another hour of reading she can feel her eyelids starting to droop. Strand doesn't look like he's faring much better: out of the corner of her eye, she sees him trying to shake himself awake. She clears her throat. 

"I hate to ask, but it's late and I'm pretty tired. Do you mind if I borrow your couch again tonight?" 

He gives her a long, studying look, one that reminds her far too much of last week's moment in the kitchen. "Of course," he says finally. 

"Thank you," she says, and when he looks as though he may relocate, she adds, "I don't mind if you keep working." 

"All right," he says, shrugging. "There should be some extra blankets in the hall closet." 

"Thanks," she says, and wanders away to retrieve them. 

\+ 

When she wakes in the morning, there's no sign of Strand, but a note on the coffee table informs her that though he has already gone out for the day, there are pancakes and coffee to be found in the kitchen, and that, as always, she's welcome to stay as long as she likes. She's so excited about having slept that she barely notices the post-script. 

_P.S.: In the interest of gathering evidence for your sleep journal: no chanting. All the same, perhaps no reading Hamlet before bed. I have it on good authority that it's a particularly good ghost story. --R._

The smile that spreads over her face as she reads has absolutely nothing to do with science. 

After a (delicious, of course, like she expected anything else at this point) breakfast, Alex heads into her latest sleep therapy appointment feeling better than she has in a long time. For much of the appointment, Doctor Bernier is her typical blandly soothing self, talking through Alex's recent sleep journals and discussing continuing strategies for better sleep habits. Everything is perfectly normal until Alex brings up what she is most excited to share-- she's finally gotten some quality sleep. 

"I have actually had a few restful nights," Alex explains, happy to share this news. 

To her surprise, Doctor Bernier does not share her enthusiasm. She sets aside her notes and crosses her hands in her lap. "Are you certain that's a good strategy?" 

"Uh. Strategy?" Alex asks. 

"Depending on a colleague to ensure that you're sleeping," Doctor Bernier clarifies. "Unless, of course, he's not a colleague?" 

"I-- um," Alex can feel herself blushing, and tries to banish all thoughts of wine and _Hamlet_ from her mind. "I don't-- he's _absolutely_ a colleague. And-- look, he said I wasn't chanting in my sleep, and you know how much that worries me--" 

"He said that?" 

Alex frowns and sits back in her chair, away from her therapist. Something in Doctor Bernier's tone is different, and it's put her on her guard. 

"Alex," Doctor Bernier continues, setting aside her notebook and leaning forward, "Please understand. I'm glad you've had some rest, but I'm concerned that this is merely a very temporary solution to your problem, Alex. We are trying to retrain your brain into healthy pathways. That won't happen if you avoid the therapeutic measures we've been trying to teach your brain." 

"But they aren't working," Alex protests. She can feel her face heating. "The only real sleep I've had in the past two weeks has been on Strand's couch. I trust him. He's a colleague, but at this point I also think of him as a friend." 

"But what if he isn't?" Doctor Bernier says, so quickly that it's as though a rubber-band has snapped. This time, Alex knows she isn't imagining things. "What if he's not what you think?" 

_He's not what you think._

That's what that weird, garbled phone message said, a year ago now, when she met with Strand for coffee and he told her that some teenager had probably just been playing a prank. And now, those same words are reappearing-- from the mouth of the woman she's been trusting to help her get some sleep. 

_Yeah, okay. That's not creepy at all._

Maybe Strand isn't the best person to trust. He's got plenty of skeletons in his closets, and there's no way she's uncovered them all yet. But in this line of work, she's learned to trust her instincts, and twice now, her instincts have let her fall asleep with him nearby and not have a care in the world, while under Doctor Bernier's care? Things have taken a turn for the worse. 

Alex shifts in her chair, forcing herself to relax, to look more casual and less suspicious. "I guess you have a point," she lies, twisting her lips to one side for good measure, as though she regretted her decision to trust Doctor Strand. 

"I'm only interested in your well-being, Alex," Doctor Bernier says, her voice smooth again, like polished glass. But glass can be sharp, and now Alex is wary. 

"Sure. I guess...I'll stick to sleeping in my own bed instead of Strand's couch," she continues, earning an approving nod from her doctor. 

"I think that's very wise, Alex," Doctor Bernier says, smiling, revealing just a few too many teeth for Alex's liking. "Very wise indeed." 

The remainder of their session goes normally, but Alex is counting the seconds until she can leave. As leaves the office, she could swear she hears Doctor Bernier pick up the phone and begin speaking another language-- but whatever it was, it's lost behind the door after it closes. Lost, at least, to Doctor Bernier's office, but the suspicions it inspires remain long after Alex returns to work. 

\+ 

Back at the studio that afternoon, Alex struggles to pay attention to her research. Nic is off with Geoff, investigating something to do with TANIS, and she doesn't feel like she can bother Doctor Strand with her suspicions about Doctor Bernier. He's finally somewhat recovered from seeing conspiracies around every corner, and she doesn't want to reignite that paranoia without good reason. 

One of interns has found something about the death of Bobby Mames, and she follows Alex up and down the halls, explaining the new leads she's uncovered. She tries to concentrate, but all she can think of is Maddie Franks and all the other seemingly normal people she's encountered during this investigation who were secretly mixed up in demonic cults. Could Doctor Bernier really be a part of that? Is this story just going to her head? 

"Alex?" 

"That's great," Alex says, focusing on the intern again. "Really. Just, um...leave the information on my desk, and I'll give those people you dug up a call later, okay?" 

"Okay," the intern says, clearly trying not to look deflated. 

Alex summons up a smile. She remembers being the exuberant new intern around the studio, after all. "Actually, you know what?" She reaches out for the file folder the intern is holding. "I'll make those calls right now. You did great work. In fact, I've got another research assignment for you." 

"Really?" 

"Absolutely. Could you...look up anything you can find about Doctor Monique Bernier?" 

"Isn't that your sleep therapist?" 

"Yeah, that's the one. Just...see if you can find anything...Black Tapes-esque going on there. And if you could keep this quiet, just for now? I don't want to alarm anybody." 

"Of course not," the intern says, nodding vigorously. "I'll be very discreet." 

"Great," Alex says, and the intern practically sprints away down the hall to her work station as Alex leans against the wall of hallway, lost temporarily in her own thoughts. 

_Well, listeners, when she's done, I'll either know that this story has officially turned me into a paranoid insomniac, or I'll know that my sleep therapist may be part of a group of people who want to raise a demon army to destroy the earth. Either way? I'm not sure I want to know the answer._

"Great," she mutters again, and heads back to her own desk. 

\+ 

That night, sleep continues to elude her. It's not that she's surprised, really, so much as crushingly disappointed.

"Ah, insomnia, my old friend." 

Frustrated, Alex flops over in bed. The clock on her side table reads 1:37 A.M., and she lets out a sigh. She's been drifting in and out for hours, curled up on her side, then her stomach, then turning to her other side, until finally she falls flat against her back, exhausted but unable to sleep. 

Two paths stretch out before her. She could take Doctor Bernier's advice and stay the course, trusting that the person she's been trusting to help her sleep isn't actually part of a ridiculous cult and does, in fact, have her best interests at heart. Or, she could remain skeptical about her sleep therapist's trustworthiness, grab her phone, and let Strand's voice lull her to sleep. 

Either way, a wrong choice seems disastrous-- but she's so, so tired of fighting to sleep, and so, so willing to put her faith in Strand. 

"Sorry, Doc," Alex mutters, reaching for her phone. "But I think I'm going to have to listen to a different Doctor tonight." 

With Strand's voice in her ears, she slowly drifts off. 

+

It's still dark when she wakes, or does she? The line between sleep and wakefulness is so blurry sometimes that she's hardly sure whether she's coming or going, asleep or awake, feet on the ground or floating through each twenty-four period, as though she's haunting herself. The clock says 3:00 A.M., so the little sleep she's managed hasn't lasted long. Beside her, her phone screen is dark, and she frowns as she realizes the battery has managed to die while she's slept. Irritated, she tugs her earphones from her ears and tosses them on the pillow beside her. 

And that's when she hears the noises from the living room. 

There are rustling sounds, like someone is pacing, back and forth, back and forth, across the laminate flooring of her apartment. As quietly as she can, Alex slips out of bed and creeps to the door, opening it only wide enough to allow herself to slide through into the hallway and the living room beyond. 

_I know what you're thinking, listeners. It's like I've never even seen a horror movie. But...this isn't a movie. This is my life. And if someone is out here, keeping me awake...I want to know about it. Who knows? Maybe it's just Amalia._

As she rounds the corner into the living room, however, she sees that it is absolutely not Amalia. 

It is Maddie Franks. She looks almost as Alex remembers her in life-- except, of course, for her face. It is upside down, eyes where the mouth should be. Blood and plasma ooze from the edges of it, the seams where the uneven stitching knits the macabre face to the skin and muscle beneath. Alex tries to scream, but finds that she can't. Meanwhile, the _thing_ that is Maddie takes a step forward, slow, but with a grace that no zombie in any horror movie has ever had. Frantic, Alex reaches for the nearest available object, a book, and hurls it at Maddie's head. The book makes contact with a sickening slurping thud, pulling at the seams of thick thread on one side of that horrible visage. Viscera drips down the side of Maddie's neck in horrible viscous globules, and the skin of her face hangs at an angle now, exposing the sinews and bone behind it. 

Still, Maddie moves closer. Alex can taste bile in her throat as her grasping fingers search for something, anything, to throw at the nightmare vision in front of her. But no matter what she does, Maddie doesn't stop moving. Soon, Maddie tilts her head to the side like a dog and begins to chant, a creepy, groaning sound that freezes Alex in place as Maddie moves inexorably forward, raising her hand, outstretched fingers almost to Alex's throat, and-- 

"Run," says a voice, and then suddenly, at her side, appearing out of thin air, stands Simon Reese. 

She does. 

Still shaking but able to move again, she manages to duck under Maddie's outstretched hand and sprint for the front door. Somehow, she has the presence of mind to grab her rain boots and purse, which sit by the door. She grips the handle of the bag so tightly that her nails dig into her palm around the strap, and as she ducks into the hall she hopes, madly, that her keys and wallet are still inside her bag, knowing that she cannot come back if they aren't. The door closes behind her, or maybe it doesn't, but either way there comes a horrific noise from inside her apartment. She doesn't know if it's Simon or Maddie or both, and she honestly doesn't care. As she stands in the elevator, shaking from the adrenaline, the screaming echoes in her ears, punctuated by the drumbeat of her heart. 

She leans against the elevator wall and puts her hand on her throat, reassuring herself that Maddie has not touched her, and tries to quiet her fear long enough to plan her next move. Her boots fall from her hand onto the elevator floor, thudding beside her. She jumps at the sound, then shakes herself and steps into the tall rubber boots. It takes a few tries to get it right; her hands are shaking from the adrenaline, and everything looks brighter, sounds louder, than it should. 

When the elevator dings and the doors open on the lobby of her building, she creeps slowly out. Safe. She needs to be safe. _Safe, safe, safe_ , she repeats to herself, over and over, until the word is strange and foreign and she barely knows what it means. There's a bus, or maybe it's her car, or maybe a cab, or maybe she's running. Whatever her mode of transport, her destination is the same: Strand. It seems as though he opens the door even before she knocks, and as soon as sees him, alive and unharmed, she falls forward into the solid mass of his body, barely even registering his arms around her in the chill of the night air. Her body offers no resistance as he pulls her inside, shutting the door and latching it quickly behind them. The security system gives a reassuring beep, but all the sound she can understand is the wild beating of her own heart and the steadier, comforting thud of Strand's. 

She breathes. He breathes. She has no idea how long they stand there in the entryway of the house, her sockless feet cold inside her boots while she hangs on to Strand as though he is the only thing in her world that makes sense. He is speaking, but she can't understand what he's saying. Words are impossible to translate, but in her mind and in her heart she recognizes the familiar rumble of his voice, its waves of sound crashing over her as the tide of her fear ebbs and finally, mercifully, drifts away. 


	4. 2R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard has trouble sleeping and tries to unravel (or avoid) some of his life's greatest mysteries-- without the assistance of a certain intrepid podcast host.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, soooo, it's been a minute since the last update, huh? Life is kind of upside-down for me right now, so I can't promise updates with any kind of regularity...but I _can_ promise this is still a thing I'm working on! So, good news/bad news, right?

Richard Strand is dreaming. 

More specifically, he is having a nightmare, although it does not begin that way. 

He is in an unfamiliar apartment, or at least, he is watching a scene unfold in one. Outside the window on the far wall of the room, the illuminated trestles of the Ballard Bridge let him know that his mind has not wandered far: he is still in Seattle. 

The room is...eclectically decorated, to put it mildly, but it is not without a certain charm. A well-loved blue sofa hugs the wall nearest the door, adorned with a light grey blanket and pancake-like throw pillows covered in some hideous floral pattern. Two mismatched orange chairs, one striped and one herringbone, complete the seating options, along with a small round tufted ottoman that is the most horrible shade of yellow he's ever seen. Photographs and framed art of all shapes, sizes, colors, and textures cover the wall, and on the coffee table sits a small stack of books. He can't see them all, but the thin volume on the top of the stack is a paperback version of _Hamlet_. 

He tries to look around further, get his bearings, but the dream is not exactly lucid: it is showing him only what it wants him to see. Most of the room has now faded into a blur of color and light, the objects within it indistinguishable from one another, the blue of the couch merging with the yellow of the ottoman, and on and on until much of the room looks like a living Van Gogh painting. The only clear space now is on the wall by the door, where a familiar handbag hangs on a set of brass hooks. Next to it is a lanyard with an identification badge, and on it, Alex Reagan's friendly face smiles brightly up at him from the photo.

Despite the inconvenient fact that he's never been here, he seems to be dreaming very vividly of Alex's apartment. 

As soon as the thought enters his mind, the badge and the bag and the door blur into a swirling pattern, just as the rest of the room had. When he turns, he finds a path of light cutting through the swirling colors of the rest of the room. He follows it, moving down a short hallway to the only door he can see. It opens when he reaches it, but he halts before he goes further: this is Alex's bedroom, and she is asleep. The scene is hyper-real, almost as though he could step out of this dreamscape and find himself awake and actually, physically, present in her bedroom. She shifts in her sleep, and he stands as still as possible, as though he could wake her. 

It feels intrusive to be watching her this way, though of course, it's only a dream...until it's a nightmare. As the clock by Alex's bed ticks over to three o'clock, there is a dull thud from outside the room. Alex has noticed it too: she sits up in bed, frozen and still for a moment, and then she grabs her phone and begins to move.

"Don't," he tries to say, as he sees her climb out of bed and creep towards the door. He has no idea what's out there, but somehow he knows she absolutely must not confront it. He knows this like he knows his own name, like he knows the atomic number of carbon, like he knows that gravity is a law, and all in vain, he attempts to throw himself at the door, keep her safe, but nothing happens: she opens the door and steps into the hallway. 

There's definitely something out there, there in the dark of her living room. Something he missed, something he couldn't see. And though he still cannot perceive it, he knows beyond any doubt that it's coming for Alex. For a brief moment, the blurred colors of the living room swirl and refocus, and he catches just a glimpse of what waits there. It's more than enough. 

And then, suddenly, he's awake. He sits up with a start, scrabbling for the light switch and his glasses, quick as he can, just to reassure himself that yes, he is in his own bed, yes, he is alone. 

"It was a nightmare," he insists, to nothing and no one, even as he feels some small part of him internally screaming, unwilling to accept that his past might once again be prologue to some horrible crime. It cannot be happening again. It _is not_ happening again, not now. Not with Alex. He grips the blankets underneath his hands, squeezing as tightly as he can, and tries to catch his breath. 

It has been years since this has happened, and in the intervening time he has managed to convince himself that it had never happened at all. Desperate to dissuade himself from the notion that anyone, anywhere, especially him, could possibly predict which of the infinite number of possible futures would actually come to pass in this reality, he has forced himself to forget-- but it was only a matter of time. Entirely unbidden, memories of his childhood surface. Cheryl and the video camera. Bobby. Wayne. Handdrawn missing posters and a group of boys on bicycles, all of them searching for a friend they still believed they'd see again. All of them, that is, except Richie, who had already seen this in his dreams. He knew the way the story would end.

He should tell Alex. He should confess at least some of it, explain that of course, he knew what Cheryl meant by a boy and a river. How could he not? Finding the body of a murdered friend should earn him _some_ sympathy from Alex. Maybe she won't push too much if he can manage to look suitably traumatized, even all these years later. It shouldn't be hard. It _was_ very traumatic. So yes, he should get ahead of the story, mold this narrative to suit the man he became instead of the boy he was. It was happenstance, he'll say, or perhaps, if pressed, he'll confess that it was merely the product of too many nights spent poring over maps, trying to get inside the mind of a killer. It's not even entirely untrue. Or he can protest, if all else fails, that it was simply luck. Not that he believes in luck, really, but she still might. What he can't do, not anymore, is labor under the delusion that she won't discover all of it. Alex Reagan, journalistic voyager into paranormal worlds unknown, _will_ find what she seeks. And he doesn't have to be a clairvoyant to know _that_ with any degree of certainty. 

_But it helps_ , protests a small yet irritatingly loud voice inside his head. It sounds vaguely like his sister. 

He rolls his eyes and pushes the thought away. Clairvoyance. What a ridiculous idea. It was just a nightmare. If he starts seeing things in the waking light of day again...then he'll be concerned. 

Very occasionally, he wishes he hadn't burned all the tapes of the interrogation he faced after finding Bobby's lifeless body by that river. If he had a copy, now would be time he would watch it, if only to remind himself what happens to people who let their imaginations reconstruct the laws of the universe, instead of living within the solid boundaries of scientific reality. 

_But is this who you really are? Is this really who you want to be?_

"No one invited you," he grumbles into the dark, speaking over Alex's voice in his head. 

He'll ignore it. He has to. What else can he do? Tell the world? What good would that do, except to undermine the reputation he has worked so hard to build? He learned long ago while sitting in the frozen sterility of an interrogation room that everyone _wants_ to believe only until it looks like the strangeness they long for might be real. Then they are nothing but fearful, for if God is real, so, after all, is the proverbial Devil. 

So there is nothing to be done except deny this away again. He will not be a Cassandra, driven mad by visions that no one else believes. There is no such thing as prescience, only high-speed neural networks that process observable data at a faster rate than the average person's. So. He isn't a _clairvoyant_ ; he's just a _genius_. That's so much more bearable, or at least it should be. Somehow, at the same time, it seems a Sisyphean burden.

"It isn't real," he protests, too much and too loudly, since only the darkness of his bedroom can hear him. "I am a rational person, and rational people do not believe in dreaming the future." 

He takes stock of the dimly lit room, reminding himself what reality is, what its laws are. The bedding underneath his fingertips, the light from the streetlights outside, the moving air from the HVAC, all of these things are ordered and neat. They make sense. They adhere to the laws of physics. There is nothing beyond those orderly boundaries; even things yet to be discovered, things lurking on the horizon of scientific exploration: even those things will be neat. They will be orderly. They will be sensible. They will not be nightmares. 

And it was only a nightmare that woke him, nothing more. What else could it be? The sort of nonsense that those of limited scruples make up to prey on the minds and hearts of the grieving? No. Nothing that Tannis Braun claims to be able to do is anything Richard wants to associate himself with. 

And yet. The dream-- the _nightmare_ , he thinks firmly-- tugs at his conscious mind. What if it really is her future that he saw? What if there _was_ something there, something he could warn her away from in the waking world so that this never comes to pass? He indulges the theory for a moment, if only so he can let it unravel into inevitable irrationality. Nothing about this hypothesis would be testable, of course, but he could at least determine if he'd really seen her apartment, and easily enough. That could be resolved with a simple trip across the city. She would probably be surprised to see him, but he's certain she wouldn't question it overly much, especially if he brought along some new piece of evidence for the podcast. But what next? What if the place in his dream really matches reality? 

"Enough," he says roughly, with a firm shake of his head, as though he could clear it so simply. 

He'll do what he always does: he'll break this vision-- nightmare, he corrects himself sternly-- down into its constituent parts, and then it will be simple to see that it could never be more than the sum of his own thoughts, conscious or not. It's easy enough to understand how his brain strung this scenario together, if he applies logic to the situation. This nightmare tapestry has obviously been woven by the strange but perfectly natural threads of his daily life: his ubiquitous guilt at having brought this story to Alex, who now cannot sleep for the fear of what lurks in the dark of her apartment; his relatively recent study of the terrible tale of a murdered young woman, her face turned upside-down; the grim reality of his own life, with all its many losses. It's only rational that when all those things are added up, they result in a very _irrational_ nightmare that still has him drawing shaky breaths alone in the dark of his bedroom. 

It's a strategy that works, mostly: his breathing is slower now, his heartbeat is normal, and he is, at this moment, _absolutely secure_ in the knowledge that there is nothing beyond this world. He is also absolutely unable to go back to sleep. 

"Naturally," he sighs, and throws off the covers. If nothing else, he will at least make the best of this insomnia and get some work done. 

+

After a sleepless night spent reading case files, Richard spends the day not at work, per se. The day's activity is nevertheless _tangentially_ related to his professional life, he rationalizes, whiling away a significant number of hours shouting at old tapes of supposed _hauntings_. It's hardly the best use of his time, but it certainly makes him feel more like himself, or at least, more like the person he tries so desperately to be. Rational. Pragmatic. Logical. And so, he sits in the basement, staring at the old television, a forgotten cup of lukewarm tea in one hand, grumbling obscenities and arguments at VHS tapes of paranormal investigators. 

"That isn't what _debunk_ means," he mumbles. "And why even bring up pareidolia when you're so deluded by apophenia in general that I'm surprised you're able to dress yourselves?!" 

As if in answer, there is a noise of lively music from nearby, while a man's voice declares, "I wanna be sedated." 

He doesn't remember _that_ being on the tape. 

"Ruby," he drawls into his phone, abruptly stopping the song, "how many times have I asked you not to change your ringtone to something ridiculous?" 

Ruby's voice is her usual mixture of lively and brusque. "It's not ridiculous, boss, it's The Ramones." 

"Yes, I know," he sighs. 

"Really? Wow." 

He didn't know, actually, but he's not going to admit that to Ruby. Instead, he changes the subject. "Why are you calling?" 

"Well, as far as I know, you still employ me to run your Institute." 

"Yes," he sighs again, trying to sound as long-suffering as possible. Ruby doesn't take the bait, which is part of the reason she's still employed-- she picks her battles judiciously. She has a few moderately pressing administrative and budgetary concerns to sort through, which take roughly half an hour to manage. As boring as it is, it's a nice distraction from the nightmare that still troubles him, all these hours later.

"Well, that's all I've got for now. Anything you need on your end of things?" she asks. "You sound a little...gruff, are you coming down with something?" 

"No, no, I've just been...cleaning," he lies, unwilling to admit to anyone else that he's spent the better part of the day in the dark of the basement in front of the television, grumbling at apopheniacs. As lies go, it's pretty terrible, he knows. Sins of omission are one thing, but he's never been especially good at lying to anyone but himself, and this is no exception, so of course it backfires immediately. 

"Oh. Did you change your mind about putting the house on the market? I can get a list of potential realtors together, if you want." 

"It's nothing like that," he protests. "I had... an unexpected houseguest yesterday." 

There's a pause, and then he can almost hear Ruby's knowing smile through the phone when she speaks again. "I am...very surprised, but almost... _proud_ , boss." 

"Ruby--" 

"I know, I know, it's none of my business." 

"It isn't, as a matter of fact, but it was only Miss Reagan, and she's gone already." 

There is a long, uncomfortable silence. From Ruby, that speaks rather loudly.

He clears his throat. "Have I lost you?" 

"Oh, I'm here," she says. 

"It was entirely professional, Ruby," he says, not that he has to justify it to Ruby, or to himself, or to anyone. "We worked late." 

"Mmhmm." 

"I know you think this-- the podcast, the investigation-- I know you think this has all been a very bad idea. But the press has made it worth it." 

"Well, our donations are up, and so are our website hits," she agrees, "and the SEO optimization we did with The Black Tapes isn't hurting either. But that doesn't mean I have to think this was a good idea. I mean, I guess it could be what my Aunt Harriet would call a _really good mistake_ , but that's as far as I can go with you, boss." 

"A really good mistake," he repeats, flatly. 

"If you knew my Aunt Harriet, you would immediately understand the connotation," Ruby says.

"Oh, I think I can guess well enough from your intonation," he grumbles. "Isn't this the aunt who you said once lived in a tree for a year to protest a condominium development?" 

"Mmhmm, that's the one," Ruby says, admiration shining through in her voice, even over the phone. "She's a spitfire, Aunt Harry. She'd probably like Alex, actually." 

“I take it you don't?” 

“I never said that,” Ruby clarifies. “She's clever and very determined. I definitely admire her tenacity, and she's fairly pretty, in a Portlandia sort of way. Nice smile. I'm probably not helping you out, am I?” 

"I have no idea what you mean," he grumbles, uncomfortable with the thought that anyone, even Ruby, who at this point in her tenure with the Institute probably knows more of his business than anyone, could so easily suss out his feelings.

"Listen, don't grump at me, Strand. I'm the only thing standing between you and total chaos most of the time, and you know it. I'm pretty sure my talent for keeping you out of trouble of your own making is the sole reason I'm still employed here, actually." 

He opens his mouth to protest, but as he can immediately think of at least twelve scenarios in the recent past that prove her point, he lets it go. "Fine. But if this is a segue to a discussion about a pay raise--" 

"I am currently feeling fairly compensated," she says, her voice taking on a thoughtful tone, "but I'll let you know if that changes." 

"Wonderful," he drawls. 

"Just be careful," Ruby sighs. 

"Careful? With what? Your salary?" 

"That too, but I meant with _you_ , boss." 

He rolls his eyes. "This is a prelude to another of your little _Rubicons_ , isn't it?" 

"I still don't find that pun particularly funny," she snipes, though there's no venom in it. "But yes, this is, in fact, one of those times where I say something that absolutely needs to be said and you tell me it's none of my business and threaten to fire me, which we both know is an empty threat. Refer, please, to my previous statement about you and chaos." 

Richard pinches the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses. This is, actually, the other reason Ruby remains in his employment: she doesn't find him intimidating, as so many people do, and therefore has absolutely no problem correcting him when she feels it's necessary. "Can you get to the point you are so painstakingly belaboring, please?" 

"You're investing a lot more in this investigation than just time and money, and you know it," she says. "It's a big risk, and I'm not sure it's worth it. All the press in the world isn't going to help the Institute if you're useless for a year because you're nursing a broken heart. Again." There's a sigh, and then a moment of silence, and then she sighs again and says, "I'm just saying. Anyway. There you go. Dice rolled, or whatever. Threaten to fire me, already, I've got work to do, let's get this over with." 

"It's above your paygrade to concern yourself with my personal life," he huffs. 

"Yeah, well, I'm only saying this because I care." 

"About your job." 

Ruby, he suspects, swallows a noise of exasperation before she answers. "Yes! I admit to some self-interest behind this thinly veiled altruism!" She sighs again before continuing. "Look. All I'm saying is that it looks to me like you're putting a lot into this, and I don't know what the return on your investment is going to be. You don't usually get this...involved, that's all."

 _Is this really who you are? Is this really who you want to be?_

"Boss?" 

"I'm here," he sighs. "Thank you, Ruby." 

"You're thanking me? And you haven't threatened to fire me," she says, suspicion coloring her voice. 

"I'll get around to it. Maybe tomorrow," he tells her. "Is that all?" 

"Yes," she says, clearly unconvinced. 

"Good," he says, and hangs up. 

\+ 

The next several days pass in a blur, as they always do when he avoids sleep for fear of what dreams may come. Hours tick by, some excruciatingly slow, some impossibly quick, until on Wednesday he receives some welcome distraction in the form of a letter. It appears in the morning, some time between the hours of six and ten, slid almost entirely under a potted plant on the corner of the sidewalk outside the house-- one of the only corners, as it happens, where the covertly placed security cameras can't pick up who left it, or when. 

Coralee's habit of having someone leave these things in _exactly_ the right place to avoid detection is more than a little unsettling, and after deciphering it, he only feels more unease: the letter refers him to a series of obscure academic articles discussing the mysterious _mantle of the dragon_ , previously referenced only in some of his father's less intelligible papers. It reappears here now, along with an exhortation to _uncover all you can_. Given the choice between this and ruminating over his nightmares, he doesn't have to ponder his options for very long. But this mantle nonsense seems almost entirely a fabrication of Howard's. It takes him another day of phone calls and research to track down even a hint of something helpful beyond the articles referenced in the letter, and more than once he considers abandoning the pursuit. He knows who he could call to help with this-- someone with a small army of interns at her disposal, perhaps-- but the memory of the nightmare still lingers, and he could do with a little more distance between them in any case. If he's alone with this, he won't think of that long moment last week when he might have kissed her, when she might have returned it, or anything else that might have followed. So he goes it alone. As usual. Alone is preferable; it will protect them both. 

Twenty-four hours of fairly nonstop searching later, he still has very little to go on about this damn mantle, save that apparently, there's yet another order, or loose conglomerate, or something, of people imbued with supernatural gifts. A lot of the things he finds are questionable translations of poorly sourced originals, all containing more references to Babylonian creation myths, ramblings about Tiamat and a Tablet of Destiny, and rather a lot about the end of the world, averted only by those bearing _the mantle of the dragon_. Whatever _that_ is. In any case, it seems to have kind of patrilineal descent to its mythos, with fathers passing along...something, the texts aren't clear on exactly what, to their sons. Or to daughters, he supposes. Anxiety blooms in his chest; he feels overly warm even on this chilly day. 

Could someone-- no doubt, some addle-brained occultist determined to usher some new wave of darkness into the world, as though it didn't already have plenty-- read these writings and come away thinking that Charlie has anything to do with this? And if they did, _what would they do to her_? 

He pulls out his phone and searches for what Ruby has assured him is the most current contact information for his daughter, or at least, it's the most current that she could unearth. What will he say to her-- assuming she even answers? They haven't spoken in years. The only time he's even heard her voice as an adult was last year, when Alex managed to get her to do an interview-- a testament to Alex's persistence and disarming charm if there ever was one. Charlie had made it very clear, back when everything in his life unraveled over the course of five horrible days, that she didn't want anything to do with him for the rest of her life. At the time, sunk deep into despair and self-loathing, he'd figured it was some kind of family curse, but not the sort that any cultists would dream up. No, whatever had come between him and his daughter was merely the banal kind of domestic drama that's been playing worldwide since the dawn of mankind: the children of absent fathers who, when they become fathers themselves, find they are doomed to repeat a tragic cycle of absence and regret. 

He knew how close they were, Charlie and Coralee. How could they not have been? After years of his childhood spent hating his father for his absence, he hadn't been able to do any better himself, when it was his turn. And just as Howard had fruitlessly promised his children that somehow, some way, all his traveling was just an effort to help their mother, in the end, he too had made a promise he could never have possibly kept. He should never have promised her what he did, that he could find her mother, that he had a _gift_ , as though what had happened with Bobby was anything of the kind. 

Maybe it would be better if he enlisted Alex's help. At least Charlie had agreed to speak to her. But then he thinks again of the boy by the river, and presses the phone to his ear.

"Charlie," he says, when the call inevitably goes to voicemail. "It's your-- it's Richard. We need to talk." 

+

On Friday afternoon, as the week draws to a close and a response from Charlie does not seem forthcoming, he decides enough is enough. He has one reasonably certain method of contacting Coralee, and up until now he hasn't felt desperate enough to use it. But he hasn't slept, and he won't call Alex, and if Charlie's in trouble then he has to try. She may have walked away from him for reasons he still doesn't understand, but Charlie...surely Charlie was just collateral damage. Coralee may not have given birth to her, but she was her mother all the same. Of the few things he still trusts of his memories, he trusts that much to be true. 

The phone number had appeared on the bottom of a disposable Starbucks coffee cup after one of his many in-person meetings with Alex, just after they'd really started investigating the black tapes, and he'd almost missed it entirely. _Text only_ , it noted. At the time he'd been irritated that she would go to the trouble of giving him a phone number but forbid him from calling. Now that it comes to it, he's grateful that he doesn't have to worry about hearing her voice after all this time. 

_I need to know about the mantle,_ he types, hoping she will understand. Before he hits send, he adds something extra, in case she doesn't understand the urgency. _Please. For Ces._

Ces. It had been their little joke, that moniker, something she learned when she had first started to read. _C.E.S._ , the letters of her initials, adorned the inside of a book that Cheryl had given her, and in trying to pronounce it she had inadvertently given herself a nickname. 

"Ces?" she asked, wrinkling her nose as she looked up at him, sounding out this unfamiliar word. 

It surprised him a little that she hadn't tried a hard _c_ , but then again, he had been reading her some Italian history the day before, and there was quite a bit of Cesare Borgia mentioned, and he hadn't thought she'd been paying attention but maybe he should have listened to Cheryl after all and stuck to something more age-appropriate for reading material? 

"Ces says what?" he asked, which made her laugh. Even long after he started to fail consistently at parenthood, that could still coax a smile to her face. 

The buzzing of the phone on the table in front of him calls him immediately back to the present, and he nearly sends it flying across the room in his haste to grab it. Two words blink up at him from the screen:

_Ask Howard._

"For fuck's sake," he growls, staring down at the message. "What am I supposed to do, Coralee, hold a damn _séance_?" 

_You'd probably do better to just get some sleep_ , says a nagging voice in his head. 

Frustrated at the incomprehensible message and deeply exhausted from several days without real sleep, he angrily taps out a reply. _And how exactly am I supposed to do that?_ He suddenly finds that he misses the days when mobile phones had real buttons; it would have felt very satisfying to mash his fingers against the "send" key just now. As it is, he can only press his thumb against the screen and swear as the phone immediately returns an error message. 

_Unknown carrier_ , the screen reads. _Message cannot be sent._

Of course. Try as he might, no other text will go through, and in the end all he is left with is a deep well of frustration and a string of error messages. And, of course, one ridiculous reply.

_Ask Howard._

Beautiful. 

He spends an hour pacing the floor in the living room, considering his options. Howard is long past dead and unable to answer, and nothing he's unearthed here so far has given him any additional insight. 

It's entirely possible that Howard could have squirreled away a secret cache of materials here in the house, but surely it strains credulity to think that no one could have discovered it in the intervening years while the house has sat vacant. And it isn't as though he hasn't _looked_. He's been everywhere, in every room; he even knocked on walls and looked at the building plans to make sure there wasn't some kind of secret room. There's nothing. It's just the boxes. A seemingly endless sea of boxes. Thinking of them now, he groans and stops pacing. He cannot possibly go through them all alone, not in any short amount of time, and he has an engagement in Los Angeles tomorrow afternoon. He'll have to have some kind of assistance. 

Fine. He'll call Alex, then. He will call her, and he will ask for her help with these boxes of papers, but he will remain the very portrait of professionalism, and eventually these unfortunate feelings and the portentous nightmares that have followed them will fade into the background of what will only ever be described as a _collegial working relationship_.  
Perhaps, however, he thinks, as his face warms a bit, he should avoid all uses of the word _relationship_ , even platonically. It's for the best. 

Thus resolved to be as professional as possible, he dials her number. She answers so quickly, it's almost as if she had been waiting for his call, which is ridiculous and doesn't bear further exploration. This is already not going well, and he hasn't even said anything. He takes a deep breath, reminds himself of a list he once made of Appropriate and Professional Interactions With Miss Reagan, and carries on with business. 

"Hello, Alex," he says, frowning as he automatically defaults to her given name instead of the safer, more formal _Miss Reagan_. Already, the list is fading into irrelevance. As it is far too late now to change it, however, he plunges ahead, and in relatively short order (after a pseudo-argument brought on by his entirely too solicitous questions about her insomnia), she has agreed to come help. Alone. 

As professional phone calls go, it was sort of a mixed bag. But what's done is done, so he busies himself with hauling boxes up into the living room. 

+

Alex arrives less than two hours after their conversation, which is something of a surprise given the hour-- traffic was sure to have been monstrous-- and the weather. Shoving aside thoughts of any particular reasons behind her eagerness to see him again, he welcomes her in from the evening rain. 

"Where do you have everything set up?" she asks, shrugging out of her rain jacket and her boots. 

"The living room again," he says. "It seemed better than the basement."

"Sounds good," she agrees, and heads in to take up her preferred spot on the couch.

This would be a perfect moment to come clean about his correspondence with Coralee. He should, he knows: she will work more efficiently if she knows what she's looking for, and he needs her efficiency if they're to find anything. But now that she's here, again, with him, alone, just the two of them reading in companionable silence, he is loath to raise the issue. It will lead to an argument in the short-term, and in the long-term, he worries what else such a confession will unlock. What other secrets will he reveal to her? What lurks at the bottom of that slippery slope, other than the lies he tells himself to be able to sleep at night? 

And so, he keeps his silence. Alex does find a letter or two that looks promising, but overall, this evening's research is proving fruitless. At least there's good company, the two of them relaxing as much as they ever do while they shuffle through page after page of research and correspondence. She's curled up on the couch like she belongs there, and not for the first time, he wishes she did. 

"Thrilling reading for you, too, huh," she says, and he shakes himself a bit before he responds. 

"I'm afraid that so far this is not proving as useful as I'd hoped."

"We've got a few boxes left to go. We might still find something," Alex says, giving him a hopeful smile which quickly shifts into a frown as her stomach gurgles audibly. "Hmm. But maybe... after we get some dinner?"

"Of course. I can always make more Hollandaise," he offers. 

"I'm sure you can," she grins. "But if I'm honest, I haven't eaten a lot today, so...maybe something a little more substantial?"

"I think I can manage that," he says, and she raises her eyebrows in surprise.

"You're really going to cook? I figured we'd just order takeout."

"I recall that you seemed to enjoy the eggs Benedict," he supplies.

She waves her hands. "Hey, I'm not afraid of your cooking, I just don't want to make you do any extra work."

"It's fine," he assures her, and with that, he levers himself up off the floor, rearranging stacks of papers so he can walk through the piles. "Don't get up," he adds, when she makes to follow. "This will be very simple. And I won't need any help-- I remember your story of burnt toast."

Her sarcastic laugh follows him into the kitchen, where he surveys the refrigerator's contents with a frown. Maybe this wasn't the best suggestion. He hasn't exactly made shopping a priority, and with Ruby back in Chicago for the present, there hasn't been anyone around to make sure that things are well-stocked. 

"Chaos of my own making, indeed," he sighs, rifling through the refrigerator's scant offerings, comparing ingredients until inspiration finally strikes. He comes away with cheese, butter, greens, and some pasta from the pantry, enough to make a decent meal for the two of them. 

There's a bottle of wine on the counter, and, throwing caution to the wind, he grabs it and adds it to the spread. It complements the pasta, and what's a bottle of wine between friends? Or _colleagues_ , as it were? Sometimes a bottle of wine is just that, surely. 

Alex has her head buried in a stack of letters when he returns to the living room, and because she doesn't hear him immediately, he takes a moment to enjoy the simple fact that such a pleasant person wanted-- hurried, even-- to spend an evening with him, even if her interest is largely professional. 

"Wow," she says, as she steps into the kitchen, and as he follows her gaze to the table, with the wine and the table settings and the pasta, he realizes belatedly that the scene must look awfully...romantic. He might as well have lit some candles and dimmed the lights.

"I thought it might be good to take a break," he says hurriedly, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. _He_ may be in over his head, but he hardly wants to burden her with this ill-advised infatuation.

But Alex, determined, kinetic woman that she is, doesn't hesitate for a moment before taking a seat at the table. "Sure. This looks perfect," she smiles, leaving him to process the potential ramifications of her eagerness to be here. 

For a distraction, he concentrates on opening the wine. It works perfectly, right up until the moment when he hands her a glass and feels the gentle brush of her fingers against his. He manages to hold it mostly together, at least until he decides it's a good idea to continue their lightly teasing banter with a toast. 

"To indefatigable journalists." 

"To tenacious skeptics," she says, and then, damn all his lists and careful planning, she _winks_ at him before she takes another sip of wine. 

Well, for fuck's sake: _alea iacta est_ and all that nonsense, then, if _that's_ the way it's going to be. If she wants to flirt with disaster, he's tired of trying to stop her. What's the harm? It doesn't have to be more than wine and good conversation, or the occasional lingering glance. After years of practicing this haughty academic routine, he hardly needs lessons in how to engage with someone without any real _investment_ , as Ruby had said. There's danger here, certainly, but he can handle himself. He doesn't have to march the entire army across the river to enjoy a little verbal tete-a-tete, surely. So he drinks his wine; he smiles back at her. And when the conversation starts to shift away from those wretched tapes and onto media and literature and theory, he acquiesces to the pull of it.

"Hamlet," Alex exclaims, reaching for her glass of wine. "Hamlet's my favorite. You really should have guessed that."

"Should I, now?" He's not exactly staring at her, but he's not looking anywhere else, either. 

"Of course. It's only one of the best ghost stories in all of Western literature, after all."

He laughs, louder and longer than he has in what feels like a century. It's not even all that funny, really, it's just the way she says it, teasing and conspiratorial, as though they're the only two people in the world who would understand. He wouldn't mind so much at this moment, he thinks, if they had the world to themselves for a while. 

But they don't. With a twinge of guilt, he remembers Charlie, the reason he'd been busily searching for answers in the boxes that have laid untouched in the living room while he indulged this infatuation for half an hour. 

"We should...get back to work," he says then, and perhaps it's only a vain hope, but he thinks her smile fades a little too quickly at his words. 

"Yeah," she sighs, settling her empty wine glass on the table as she stands. "You're right. I'll help you clean up. It's the least I can do, after you made such an amazing dinner."

He acquiesces. After a brief conversation over cleaning, during which he rather shamelessly hints at the indiscretions of his bygone youth, they return to their research, or at least Alex seems to. For his part, he drifts between trying to concentrate on the letters and trying not to concentrate on dinner, or the pleasant conversation, or that damned wink. He shouldn't have given into the temptation, while they were washing dishes, to talk about his college days. He shouldn't have laughed at her ridiculous joke in response to it. But he did, and he doesn't entirely regret it.

"I hate to ask, but it's late and I'm pretty tired. Do you mind if I borrow your couch again tonight?"

Any number of potential replies cross his mind, but narrow rather quickly down to two. "Yes, I mind very much, I'm not running a free bed and breakfast, and I've got an early flight in the morning," says a stern, admonishing voice, which sounds far too much like Ruby. Competing with this entirely sensible statement is his own voice-- albeit from long ago in those halcyon college days he so recklessly dangled in front of her earlier-- sensuously suggesting, "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable upstairs." 

It's been a very long time, but he thinks he could still pull that off. He knows his voice is nice. He doesn't imagine she's failed to notice; she listens to audio recordings for a living, after all. 

In the end, he reminds himself that this wasn't supposed to go anywhere and settles for a simple, "Of course," to which she gratefully replies, "Thank you," and that, as they say, is that. 

+

Early the next morning, he manages to quietly creak his way out of the chair he's slept in for the second weekend in a row, while Alex slumbers peacefully on nearby on the couch. He would wake her, but then they'll _talk_. 

So instead, he makes breakfast as quietly as he can-- pancakes, little fuss-- along with coffee that he has no intention of drinking, but it's a nice gesture, and what's the harm in that? She came all the way out here to help him sort through all these papers and boxes. The least he can do is leave her some freshly made coffee for her trouble. And pancakes. And a nice note. 

Against his better judgment, he adds a postscript about her lack of chanting and throws in a reference to Hamlet for good measure, then slips out the door and heads to SeaTac. The flight is short but uneventful, and he's in a cab on his way to Pasadena before time even seems to have passed. 

He's been accepting these requests less and less of late, but invariably, they devolve into questions about the black tapes, and sometimes other aspects of PNWS programming with which he has no familiarity whatsoever-- it doesn't seem to matter how many times he protests that he knows nothing about TANIS, someone is sure to ask. But this event is at CalTech, site of the most recent Skeptics Society annual conference, and he won't be the only _non-believer_ here. Hopefully, a day immersed in skepticism will be just the antidote he needs to counteract this nonsensical inner turmoil over his recent nightmares. 

It works, mostly: the first half of the panel is as uneventful as it is rejuvenative. They discuss the many absurdities of parapsychology and the rise of weird beliefs, and while it isn't as though he doesn't enjoy being challenged on these things, it is comforting to sink into the familiar arguments of skepticism and stop entertaining doubts for an afternoon. Someone even asks a question about precognition, and he has the opportunity to enjoy a good laugh along with the rest of the panel about how ridiculous the notion is. 

If he _could_ see the future, perhaps he wouldn't have been so surprised at what happens during the lunch break. 

He had looked around only for a moment to answer a question from a student. No one else was standing nearby, and he had hardly been so deep in conversation that he wouldn't have noticed someone behind him. And yet, somehow, when he turns back to the table, a book sits atop his briefcase. The book is old, with a title in what looks like some form of Cyrillic; a quick Google search with his phone confirms that yes, it's likely Bulgarian, and a rough translation might involve the words _stole_ or _mantle_ and _dragon_. But more than anything, it's the name on the inner bookplate that nearly stops his heart. 

_H. Strand, acq. 1975_

He looks around wildly, but there's no one anywhere near his seat who could have left this without his notice.

"You didn't happen to see anyone leave this here, did you?" he asks the other panelists, just before they resume their talk. He hopes he doesn't sound too unhinged, but it is a little unnerving. 

"Secret admirer, Strand?" asks one of the panelists, a sly smile on her face. 

"Probably a fan of that _podcast_ ," another drawls.

"Probably," he manages to say, and then falls into grateful silence as the moderator reopens the session. 

The first few questions are for the other guests, which is good: he's finding it difficult to concentrate on anything other than the book, the nameplate, and Coralee's most recent valediction. 

_Ask Howard._

Maybe this is his chance. 

"Doctor Strand?" 

He returns to earth to find the moderator, fellow panelists, and most of the audience staring at him. He clears his throat and looks for an audience member holding a microphone. "I'm sorry, could you repeat the question?" 

"One of the most frequent ways I see people pushing back against skepticism is this idea that we should just live and let live, that so-called 'weird' ideas aren't really harming anyone," says a young man in the third row. "You've spent a lot of time recently working with closely with a person who certainly seems to believe in paranormal activity, and that belief has resulted in some detrimental effects-- insomnia, hallucinations, reckless behavior, who knows what else. So, I'm wondering: do you think it would be fair to say that Alex Reagan is something of an object lesson in why people _shouldn't_ believe?" 

Richard has never considered himself a person much disposed to violence, but he would very much like to personally remove the smug smile from this young man's face. 

"No," he says, finally, his thoughts somewhat gathered, at least enough to respond beyond _Insult Alex Reagan again in front of me and see how far it gets you_. There's a surprised ripple throughout the crowd, but he continues anyway. "To me, Alex is a fairly good example of the incredible capacity that human beings have for curiosity and wonder. That kind of thirst for knowledge should be endorsed, not derided. Of course," he sighs, figuring he'll throw them some kind of bone, "It would be nice if she could jump to fewer supernatural conclusions. But Alex is a good journalist, and she just wants the truth. I'm confident that in the end, that's what she'll find." 

The truth. Whatever _that_ is. 

The talk moves on from there, and mercifully there are no more questions about Alex. 

Usually, he would linger after these events, talking to colleagues, signing books for audience members, but today he gives the moderator no more than a perfunctory _thank you_ before making his exit, intent on finding a place to look into this strange book. There's a quiet garden a few minutes' walk from the lecture hall where he can sit in relative peace, so he heads there as soon as he can slip away. 

Alex will want to know about this. He knows she was frustrated with their investigation last night, which likely yielded very little usable audio for her next episode, and a conversation about a mysterious book that seems to have belonged to his father is right up her journalistic alley. And since he seems to have given up on avoiding her for the present...

When he unlocks his phone, however, he is immediately distracted by the last thing he expected to see: an email reply from Charlie. He wishes he could say he didn't hesitate before opening it, but his thumb hovers over the subject line for a few moments longer than is strictly necessary. 

_Richard._

_Not sure what we have to talk about, exactly, or how you got that number. Email if you feel like you have to, but it better be an emergency._

_Please don't call again. Thanks._

_ces._

He reads it twice. He would take some small joy in the fact that she's signed it with her nickname, but he knows it's only there to let him know that it's actually from her. 

_It better be an emergency._

Surely murderous cultists stalking her qualifies, even if he currently has no proof of that, exactly, just a very, very bad feeling-- which is exactly how he arrived at this situation to begin with. 

He sighs, puts the book aside, and begins to type out a reply. 

+

It's around midnight when he makes it home from SeaTac. The book still holds onto its mysteries; despite his best efforts on the plane home, he doesn't speak enough Bulgarian to understand whatever knowledge it offers. The house in Burien is quiet and dark as he pulls into the driveway: Alex has long since left. 

At three o'clock in the morning, he bolts up in bed, the same damn nightmare playing out again on a horrible, infernal loop, only this time, he sees the _thing_ lurching towards Alex out of the dark. The feeling of its verisimilitude is so strong this time that when he wakes, he finds himself holding his phone and staring at Alex's number before he can really even shake himself fully awake. 

"Dammit," he swears, throwing off blankets and directing his feet onto the floor. Nightmare or no, there will be no more rest for him this evening, that much he knows, so he shrugs on a bathrobe, shuffles downstairs, and puts water on for tea. Before he can even turn the knob to light the flame, the kitchen dissolves in front of him, replacing his entire field of vision with Alex's apartment and the horrifying vision she's confronting. The scene continues in flashes: Alex slumped against the back of an elevator with her hand over her heart, Alex reaching her car and fumbling with keys, dropping them twice before she slides into the driver's seat and gratefully locks the doors. 

The last thing he sees before the kitchen slides back into view is the kitchen clock ticking over to 3:37. 

"No, no, no, not again," he mutters, pressing his palms against the cool marble of the countertops. The dreams returning is bad enough, but if this is going to start happening while he's awake, there will be nothing he can do to avoid it. 

Behind him, the clock on the wall ticks relentlessly, its noise the only sound in the room besides his breathing. It is 3:14. That leaves him twenty-three minutes to make sense of the world. 

He forces himself to make tea. It does nothing to calm his fraying nerves, or dull the sense that something is coming, and he needs to be prepared. The kettle whistles at 3:24. He closes his eyes; all he sees is Alex, running. 

At 3:30, the tea has steeped. He does not drink it. Instead, he stares at the steam rising from the mug as the minutes move past, trying to ignore a rising tide of panic. When the clock on the wall ticks over to 3:36, he can stand it no longer. 

"Fine," he growls, frustrated that he cannot manage to sweep away these irrational thoughts. "I'll go to the door, I will look outside, and when there is _no one there_ , I'm going back to sleep, because this is all _completely absurd_." 

For the briefest of moments after he angrily throws open the door, he sees no one and nothing, and he exults in this victory, his faith in the rationality of the universe unshaken. It was just some kind of waking nightmare brought on by sleep deprivation. But then there she is, hurtling towards him through the dark. Alex barely slows down when she reaches him, and even the slight weight of her crashing into him nearly knocks them both backwards. He keeps his feet, but only just, letting the momentum push them both back into the house as he instinctively wraps his arms around her. 

Even as he reassures her that she is safe, murmuring platitudes that neither of them believe, he knows, with horrible certainty, where she has been, and why she is shaking. He can no longer deny it. The visions are back. All that is left for him to do is hope that this time, it doesn't end as badly as it it always has before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Guide to the Many Allusions of Richard Strand: 
> 
> Fewer in this chapter, but hey, Richard's a little out of sorts. 
> 
> _Cassandra_ : In Greek mythology, a princess of Troy who had the gift of prophecy, but was doomed to have her predictions go unheeded and unbelieved. 
> 
> _pareidolia_ : The Man in the Moon problem! Basically, a psychological phenomenon in which the brain causes us to perceive distinct images in places where there are none. Kind of a specific subset of apophenia, if you will. [PS, because I'm so bad at updating this sucker: if you can guess what (famous???) ghost hunting team Richard's watching footage of in the scene where he grumbles about this, I will write you at least 500 words of these folks! First come, first serve! Hit that good good comment button to let a girl know what your guess is.]
> 
>  _Rubicon_ : Shorthand for a point of no return. Short version, Julius Caesar had direct orders not to do a thing, he did the thing, the thing involved crossing the Rubicon River. It's also a terrible play on Ruby's name and I literally couldn't bring myself to delete it once I typed it. 
> 
> _alea iacta est_ : Latin, "the die is cast." Possibly, Caesar said this upon crossing the Rubicon.
> 
> Next time, on The Black Tapes (Fanfic Edition): Everybody gets some much-needed sleep (eventually, anyway). Stay with us!


	5. 3A.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex investigates her own apartment-- and her feelings for Richard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, I had a beautiful dream that this fic would be all posted before the show came back for its (::sob::) final season...aaaaand that's not gonna happen. There is a ton more of this story, though! I deeply appreciate each and every one of you who is still reading along with this, even though my upside-down life keeps me from updating with any regularity. I promise I'm going to see this through to the end, it's just taking me a lot longer than I wanted. xoxo!

"You're going to be okay," she hears him say. "You're safe." 

_Safe._ She almost remembers what the word means, now. 

His hands are warm on her back; dimly, she realizes she is cold, and shivers. 

His hands press down gently on her shoulder-blades in response. "Are you hurt?" 

"No," she says, her face still half pressed against his chest, cheek pillowed against the cotton of his shirt. 

"Good," he says. She thinks if she wanted to, she could hold the relief in his voice in her hands, but she doesn't have the presence of mind to parse that right now. "Is anyone else hurt?" 

"I don't-- I'm not-- I don't think so," she stammers, willing away thoughts of the leftover parts of Maddie Franks lurching toward Simon Reese. "I'm not sure, I'm sorry." 

"Okay," he says, and that's all either of them say for a while. She doesn't move away, and he doesn't let go. Maybe it would become uncomfortable at some point, but at the moment, she's perfectly happy to stand here like this with him until the sun rises. 

His voice eventually rumbles through her thoughts again. "Alex, can you tell me what happened?" 

She's been telling ghost stories for a living for two years now, but no part of her can conjure words that actually fit the horror she just ran from. She squeezes her eyes shut, but it doesn't matter: she can still see Maddie's blood on her floors, smell the sickly iron tang of it, hear Simon's warning in her ear. The room stands perfectly still, but her stomach rolls like a stormy sea. 

"Oh god. Excuse me." 

She pushes abruptly away from Strand, absolutely certain that she is going to be sick. She's not wrong, but fortunately there's a small bathroom just down the hallway. Alex darts in and slams the door behind her as quickly as she can, grateful that she's been here enough to know the house's layout as well as she does.

Minutes pass that feel like days. She is sitting, curled up tight against the counter that holds the sink. The small window in here isn't letting in any light, so she knows that time must have ticked on with its usual faithful regularity, but it still seems like ages have streamed by in rapid succession before she hears a soft knock at the door. Or at least, it was probably intended to be soft. Everything she can see or hear or feel is sharper, brighter, harsher, like someone slapped some kind of hyperreal filter on the whole of her world. She reaches towards the door handle, intending to tug it open, but her hands quiver and shake. Instead, she tucks her arms around herself and says nothing. 

When she makes no reply, Strand's voice drifts through the few inches of wood that separate them. "Alex?" 

"Come in," she sighs, at last, and the door swings open to reveal a concerned Strand.

"Sorry about that," she mumbles, focusing on the too-white glare of the porcelain sink, the sharp halo of the ceiling light above her, anything but him. 

"It's really alright," he assures her. "Are you?" 

"I don't know. I'm shaking," she tells him, holding her hands out for inspection, as though he might need proof of this like he needs proof of everything else. She pulls her hands back and rubs her eyes. "And was it always so bright in here?" 

"Ah. That will be the adrenaline," he says, and then, adding to the strangeness of her day, he sits down next to her, or as next to her as he can, long legs stretched out into the dark of the hallway as he leans against the doorframe. "It can also make you feel sick."

"Oh," she says, blinking against the brightness of the room. "Right. I...think I knew that." 

Alex stares at her hands like they belong to someone else. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Strand's hands twitch, just slightly, a strange little aborted motion towards her that she barely has time to notice before he folds his hands back into his lap. Was he going to hold her hands? 

"I know it's unpleasant, but it will subside eventually," he continues. "You just need to give it some time." 

"Okay," she says, closing her eyes against the brightness of the room and leaning her head against the wall at her back. 

She should ask him how he knows so much about this. There must be a story somewhere behind his too-casual, matter-of-fact explanation-- she's been a journalist long enough that can feel a story like she can feel the chill touch of the tile on her legs-- but whatever once frightened Richard Strand so much that he understands an adrenal response when he sees one will remain a mystery for the moment, because Alex Reagan: Intrepid Reporter, is still very much down for the count. 

"I would like to sit this out somewhere that isn't in here, I think," she says, when the cold of the tiles is too much for her to bear. He nods, then stands and moves aside to let her pass. 

She isn't entirely certain what her destination will be when she starts moving, but her feet seem to have a mind of their own and soon direct her to the living room and the now-familiar couch. After a few minutes, Strand follows her back to the living room and sits next to her, just close enough for comfort but not close enough to invade her personal space. The rational part of her brain appreciates this small courtesy, even as the rest of her fights not to curl up into his side and shut out the world. He distracts her by handing her a towel, which she takes, blinking over at him in confusion.

"What's this for?" 

"Your hair," he says, frowning, and she reaches up to find that she is soaked. No wonder she's so cold. 

"I guess it was raining," she says, and it is either a minor miracle or a testament to how frazzled she must still look that Strand does not comment on the absolute banality of this statement. She hates how young she must sound in this moment, how lost and uncertain she must seem. She's thirty-five, not fifteen, though at the moment she imagines it's hard to tell the difference.

She grips the towel in one hand and clutches a fistful of wet hair with the other. "This is going to seem like an odd question, but... how did I get here?" 

"You don't remember?" 

She shakes her head. Droplets of water fly everywhere, including onto Strand, but he seems unphased, or at least, indifferent. 

"I don't know," he says, after a moment. He looks toward the front of the house, and then back to her, frowning. "Your car wasn't outside. At least, I didn't see it when I looked." 

"What?" She rubs her face, trying to recall what had happened after she fled her apartment, but no memories surface. "Oh, god." 

"Alex, you've obviously had quite a shock. It's not unusual not to remember everything right away," he says, and this time she has no doubt that he's speaking from experience. She wonders briefly if he's thinking of Big Sur, but then one of his hands curves around her shoulder, squeezing gently, and she forgets to consider what Richard Strand looks like when faced with _quite a shock_. "The important thing is that you're not hurt." 

"Right," she says, and takes a deep breath, and then another. Her adrenal response must be subsiding, because the room is at last appropriately bright and the sound of her own breath isn't threatening to overwhelm her with its noise. "Okay. I have to sort this out somehow. Would you mind-- I mean, I know it's the middle of the night, but could you--" 

"Tea?" he asks, with a hint of that smile she wishes she saw more of, especially right now. 

"You read my mind," she smiles back, laughing at the face he makes. "Relax. It was a figure of speech. Of course I don't think you can read minds." 

"Well, _obviously_ ," he says, rolling his eyes as he gets to his feet. "I'll be right back." 

With hands that are finally not shaking, she lifts the towel to her hair and tries to wring some of the water out.

_Listeners...I don't know what I'm doing here. How did I get from Ballard to Burien without my car? The bus, maybe, but the bus doesn't exactly drop off right in front of Strand's house. Did I take a cab? Did I walk part of the way? And more important than any of that...was anything I think I saw at my apartment...real?_

As much as she hates the thought that it might have been, she finds that even more, she dreads the idea of verbalizing any of it for Strand, holding it up to the light of his skeptical scorn. He's being as comforting as it's probably possible for him to be under the circumstances, but somehow she doesn't think that this temporary cessation of condescension over proposed paranormal activity will extend to the strangeness of _Well, Richard, a dead woman with an upside-down face tried to attack me in my apartment and then Simon Reese came out of nowhere to stop her_. 

"Fuck," she swears, dropping the towel into her lap and staring up at the ceiling. Why couldn't she have run to Nic's instead? Nic, who lives maybe ten minutes from her place? Nic, her best friend and producer, who has weird opinions on TANIS but seems pretty level-headed about the weird events surrounding Strand's black tapes? Nic, who would let her crash on the couch for an undetermined period of time and would ask the hard questions but still _unequivocally_ support her if she said she saw Maddie Franks and Simon Reese in the middle of the night in her apartment? 

_I know some of you have theories about why I'm out here at Strand's, listeners. I do read most of our fanmail, actually. And look at the drawings you send in. Yes--all of them. And I've been thinking a lot about what Strand is to me, lately, and the thing about me and Strand is--_

Strand reappears from the kitchen at that moment, interrupting whatever silent confession she might have made to her invisible host of podcast listeners. He holds two mugs of tea, one of which he carefully settles onto the coffee table in front of her before sitting down again. He sips at his own tea in silence while Alex watches the steam swirling up from her own mug, momentarily mesmerized by it. 

It's odd: when Strand first relocated to Seattle, she recalls visiting him here and struggling to make small talk, too uncomfortable at the awkward silence that stretched out between them to let it continue. It is supposed to be absence, not presence, that makes the heart grow fonder, but Alex finds that more time spent with Strand has only turned this previously strange silence into a companionable one. As confused and tired as she is right now, she is content enough with him to sit and wait for her tea to cool without feeling an obligation to speak. It's a nice change. 

"I'm sorry I woke you up with this," she sighs, when she does eventually speak. 

"You didn't." 

"Come on," she says, nudging his knee with her own. "I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but it's practically four in the morning, you can let me apologize." 

"I was awake," he protests, gesturing to the various materials scattered around the living room. "You're...not the only person in the world who struggles with sleep, Alex." 

"Oh," she says. It shouldn't be a surprise, not really: she's stayed over here before, she knows he works late. It wouldn't have been much of a stretch to think that he did it because he couldn't sleep-- she knows that pain all too well, after all. She smiles crookedly over at him as she bends to pick up her tea. "Well, I'm sorry you're also in the Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Insomnia Club, then." 

He chuckles, and she would swear the sound of it makes her lighter. "Thank you," he adds. "And my... condolences, I suppose, for your relatively recent induction into this sleepless society." 

"Thanks," she says, with a chuckle of her own. 

"So," he says, taking a sip of his tea. "What happened tonight?" 

"You're not going to believe me," she sighs, curling her palms around the heat coming from the mug she holds.

He won't. How could he? He spends his life traveling the world, telling people who have experienced things like this that they're just seeing patterns where they don't belong. But he reaches out again and squeezes her shoulder, saying, "Try me," like he's making some kind of vow, and oh, she wants to believe that she's different. She wants to believe that she's special-- not to the rest of the world, just to him. 

_I don't care if you believe anyone else,_ , she wants to say. _Maybe everybody else is wrong, when they say these things happen, but that doesn't mean I am. Believe me. Please._

His voice calls her back. "Alex?" 

She looks into his eyes, hoping she sees a promise there. _Believe me,_ she thinks again, like it's a prayer. _Try me_ , he said. So, she does. 

She tries to rush through it, as though if she tells the story fast enough she can outrun the horror of it. "I was trying to sleep," she begins, leaving out the part where she was listening to his voice. "I fell asleep around one, then sometime around three, I woke up because I heard a noise. It-- it sounded like someone was in my living room. I thought...I don't know what I thought. Amalia still has keys to my place, so..."

"You thought she might have come back," Strand prompts, when it seems that she cannot finish the sentence.

"Yeah," she nods. She remembers to sip at her tea. "I guess." 

"I'm fairly certain that you didn't find Amalia in the living room, or you wouldn't be here." 

"No," she says, gripping the mug tighter at the memory. 

"If you don't want to talk about it now...," he says, but she shakes her head and leans forward to set her tea on the table, then shifts a little so she's facing him.

"No, I need to get this out, but I-- I need you to actually hear it. Okay?" 

_Believe me. Please._

"I'm listening, Alex," he says, as he settles his own tea next to hers on the coffee table. "Really." 

"Yeah, but it's the next part where things get..." Her hands fly back and forth between them as she tries to find a suitable word. "Weird, I guess." 

"Define 'weird'," Strand says slowly. 

There's nothing for it. She takes a breath and dives in. "It was Maddie Franks. _I saw Maddie Franks_ , Richard. Please-- don't make that face."

"I'm not making a-- she's dead, Alex. Are you saying someone left a body in your living room?" 

"No! She...she was dead, but she wasn't. I don't know how someone could survive any of that, but she had to be alive because she was...standing. And moving. With her face, just...it was awful. And she just kept coming towards me, and I couldn't run, I couldn't scream, and then out of nowhere Simon Reese is standing behind me and telling me to run, so...I ran. And now I'm here, and I have no idea how I got here, and I'm telling you all of this because you asked, and I know you can't believe me but I really, really wish you would." 

She slumps back against the couch, ready to defend her memories. But it appears that she has finally managed to render Richard Strand speechless, and not at all in the ways she has occasionally hoped to do so.

"Well?" she challenges, when a minute passes and he still hasn't made a reply. 

"That...would be very frightening," he says, looking deeply uncomfortable. He reaches up to his neck like he's going to loosen a stiff shirt collar, then seems to remember that it's four in the morning and his shirt doesn't really have one. He drops his hand away.

"You think?" she snaps. Of course. Of course he doesn't believe her. He doesn't believe her, and she isn't special, and it's that more than anything else that really stings. "I knew you wouldn't believe me, I don't know why I even tried." The rubber band of her sanity has worn far too thin to be grateful for his attempt at diplomacy, and she practically leaps off the couch in her anger. But the universe isn't done embarrassing Alex Reagan for the evening, so of course, she promptly bangs her shin hard on the corner coffee table. She yelps. "Goddamn it!" 

Strand is off the couch almost as soon as she is, but he hovers a few feet away, watching her warily. "Are you okay?" 

"No, of course I'm not okay!" she shouts, rubbing the now very tender spot on her leg. "I don't remember how I got here and I don't even know why I came, I don't know why I thought you'd believe me!"

 _I don't know what I thought I meant something to you_ she wants to say, but she doesn't.

"Alex--" he tries to say, but she isn't through. 

" _You_ think I had a _nightmare_. Don't you? It _wasn't_ a nightmare, Richard, it was real. It was real and it was _in my home_ : Maddie, but not Maddie. And Simon Reese. I know it makes you uncomfortable, but it was real, it happened, and of course I don't have any _proof_ to offer you, but I thought-- I thought..." she turns her face away. She isn't crying, but she wants to. 

"Okay," he acquiesces, showing her his palms in a conciliatory gesture. "All right. It doesn't matter."

"What do you mean, it doesn't--" 

"It doesn't matter what I may think caused the problem, the result is that you're upset," he explains, with the same sort of stoic calm that he once employed to poke holes in her haunted credit union. But two years of this investigation have changed that man. The Richard of two years ago, after all, wouldn't even have let her get this far. He would have had a million reasons, each more logical than the last, explaining away her story from his confident perch in his ivory tower. The man in front of her is a distinct contrast. He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture she rarely sees him make. And when her defiant eyes do meet his again, she finds no hauteur or even self-assurance there. Instead she sees worry, and something she thinks might be fear, though for what she doesn't know. "Alex," he says, and stops, unsure. The hesitation alone is a balm: this is not a man known to pull punches if he thinks someone is wrong. So maybe he can't believe her, but maybe she's a little bit special, after all. "Alex, we'll figure it out. Whoever it was, we'll figure it out. In the morning. Well. Later, in the morning. After you've had some sleep. All right?" 

Her tired brain latches on to that "we" and won't let go. She lets it pull her up, back out of the murky waters of her own frustration. _We'll figure it out. We. You and me. Together._ It sounds like a promise. 

"I'm going to hold you to that," she says, and as he nods in response the remainder of her fury drains away. Empty of rage, all she wants is to curl up somewhere safe and sleep for a year. "God, Richard, I'm sorry I yelled, I'm just-- I'm so tired." 

"I know," he says softly, and she's not entirely sure who moves first-- maybe it's her, exhausted and desperately in need of human comfort, or maybe it's him, also exhausted and perhaps equally in need of a reminder that he is, in fact, a person, instead of some kind of ambulatory paranormal denial system-- but either way she finds herself folded once again into his arms. 

_I don't want to hear anything about crossing ethical lines right now, okay, listeners? He's just...he's being a friend. And it's...nice. It's really just-- very nice._

Regardless of what she tries to tell her imaginary audience, Alex knows what this is-- or at least, she knows what it isn't. She's hugged friends before, in times of joy and in times of crisis, and at no point has it felt like this. The line between what constitutes a _hug_ and what amounts to _being held_ is not so thin, and even Alex, consumed as she has been with this investigation, is not so out of practice at listening to her heart that she cannot tell the difference.

"I'm scared," she admits, to the drum of his heartbeat. "I'm afraid that I saw it, and I'm afraid that I didn't. Either way, I don't think I'm going to like what it means." 

"We'll figure it out," he assures her again. 

"All right," she sighs. "But promise me you'll keep an open mind?" 

"Within the bounds of reason and rationality," he says, and she can only imagine the face he must be making. 

"Thanks," she laughs, pulling away at last. "That's so considerate." 

"You should get some rest. The guest room is yours for the night," he says, swiftly pivoting to a different subject. "And I-- hmm. I can try to find you something else to wear." 

"Huh? Oh, wow." 

She looks down, then, and realizes for the first time since he opened the door that she has turned up at the home of her source, her colleague, her friend-- her _whatever_ he is-- drenched from an overnight rain, wearing rainboots, no socks, a ratty t-shirt from an ex-boyfriend's punk band, no bra, and unfortunately short sleep shorts which happen to be decorated with tiny cartoon ghosts. 

"I'll... go find some things for you," he says. 

"Yeah," she says, rubbing her arms. "Okay. Thanks." 

She sinks onto the couch and drinks the rest of her tea, now cooled, while she waits for him. She tries not to think too hard about what it means to be here, borrowing his clothes, feeling comforted by his presence, by the warmth that washes over her when he holds her like that. She doesn't like what it might mean that she needs him to believe her about everything that happened tonight as strongly as she does. At the very least it seems to indicate that she cares more about the man than she does about the mysteries he's brought her, but surely four in the morning is the worst time to entertain those thoughts, so she distracts herself by grabbing her phone and recording a few minutes of audio for the show. 

Eventually, Strand returns, rescuing her from thoughts she doesn't want to have and memories she doesn't really want to record. 

"I don't really keep anything here that isn't mine," he says, frowning as he holds out some clothes. "But at least they're dry." 

"It's fine," she assures him. "Um. Thanks." 

"Of course." 

She returns to the downstairs bathroom to change clothes, trying not to consider the undeniable intimacy of wearing Strand's things. She didn't want to inspect what he handed her in front of him, but now that she's alone, she sees that she is holding a plain, faded grey t-shirt and a pair of navy sweatpants. The Yale logo is emblazoned on the hip. She smiles for what feels like the first time in years. She isn't sure what she was expecting, exactly: she has been here overnight before, she knows he doesn't wear some kind of silk, monogrammed _formal pajama_ , or something, but even so, she's a little surprised, somehow. But the soft, worn cotton is like an old friend against her skin regardless, and far better than her damp pajamas. As she pulls on the sweatpants, she recalls their after-dinner banter of the week before. Were these clothes a remnant of Strand's wayward college years? And if they were, who did he make breakfast for, wearing these things, all those years ago? 

She splashes some cold water on her face before she leaves the bathroom, hoping the chill will take away some of the pink in her cheeks. It works. Sort of. 

"Well," she says, laughing as she gestures to her feet, "you are definitely taller than me, in case you had any doubts, but this is a big improvement on wet clothes, so-- thank you." 

"You're welcome," he replies, looking up from the work he had returned to while she was out of the room. "If you need anything else, I'll be right here. Go get some sleep." 

"Right. Sleep," she says, and turns to head upstairs to the guest room. She hasn't even made it to the second step before the thought of going upstairs to sleep, alone, in the dark, even in this place of relative safety, makes her turn right back around.

"Something the matter?" he asks, when she reappears in the living room so quickly. 

"No," she says, shaking her head. "Well. Yes. I-- uh, listen, can I just sleep on the couch? You can keep working. I can't sleep in a room by myself, I just...I can't. Not right now." 

"Well, would it help if--" Whatever Strand was about to say, he abruptly changes course, shaking himself a little.

 _Is he blushing? I know you can't see him, listeners, so I'm not sure why I'm asking you, but I think it's possible that-- nah. Probably just the light. Right?_

Strand coughs, distracting her. "The couch might still be a little damp from your clothes, but that's...up to you, I suppose." 

"It'll be fine," she says.

"As you wish," he shrugs. "Blankets are in the usual place." 

She nods, and goes to collect them. When she returns a few minutes later, Strand is entirely focused on his papers and doesn't look up at her at all, so she quietly spreads the blankets across the couch and gratefully collapses onto it. 

She's so tired that she's sure she'll be asleep in minutes, but of course, she isn't. Instead, as soon as she closes her eyes, her brain summons an instant replay of Maddie and Simon and all the horrible things that could have happened if she hadn't been able to run. 

_Well, listeners, hearing Richard's voice certainly helped me sleep before. Worth a try, right?_

"Read something," she requests, looking over at Strand. "Please? Anything. Whatever you're working on right now, I don't care." 

"This is a transcript from one of my unsolved tapes," he says, holding up a thick sheaf of bound papers. "I'm not reading this to you. It...will not help you sleep." 

"It's fine," she insists, waving her hand. "I won't hear the words. Really, I just need the noise." 

_It's fine, listeners, as long as it's just any old noise I need and not the sound of his voice in particular, right? Right?_

"Please?" she says again, when he doesn't reply. 

"I'll be right back," he says, and disappears for a few minutes into another room. She can't see what book he's holding when he returns, but it looks fairly slim. 

"All right. I'll read this," he says, waving the book in her direction as he settles back into the easy chair across from her, "on the condition that you at least _try_ to sleep." 

"It's a deal," she replies, stifling a yawn as she closes her eyes. Apparently satisfied with her response, she hears him crack the book open, pages rustling as he flips to the first page of whatever it is.

"Who's there?" 

Alex can't help it, she grins. She even silently mouths along with the next few lines, but she keeps her eyes shut, and Richard continues reading. 

"Stand, and unfold yourself," he continues. 

Adrift on the soothing waves of the sound of his voice, she's asleep before Hamlet even makes an appearance. 

\+ 

Sunrise comes much earlier than she'd like, but Alex shoves a pillow over her head and goes back to sleep until a little after nine. _Hey, five hours of sleep is better than none, listeners_ , she thinks, grateful that it's Sunday and she isn't obligated to be in the studio. She might have slept even longer, but sometime around nine, the aroma drifting in from the kitchen suggests to her that Strand has resumed his role as breakfast chef, and she's not going to miss out on whatever it is that he's made. 

The day's culinary _pièce de résistance_ turns out to be a giant quiche filled with mushrooms and cheese and fresh herbs. She has two pieces and is certain she will never need to eat again, at least until the next time she's over here for a meal. 

"This seems like it was a lot of work," she says, stabbing at the last mushroom on her plate. "Did you make this crust and everything?" 

He shrugs. "Yes, but I keep telling you, it's not really work." 

"If you say so," she says, drinking the last sip of her coffee. She leans back from her empty plate, satisfied and happy. "You know, if you ever get tired of being a skeptic, you can probably open a brunch place and make bank." 

"I'll keep that in mind," he chuckles, as he starts to gather his dishes together.

"Here, you know what, give me those and sit down," she insists, when he starts to get up. "You made breakfast, I can do dishes. Really." 

"Okay," he agrees, readily enough, and reaches for his tea while she gathers up their dishes. 

Alex stacks their empty plates and heads for the sink while Strand finishes his morning tea and scans the news on his laptop. As she collects the various bowls and utensils he had used to make breakfast, bringing everything over to the sink for washing, she considers that they really must have arrived at some new space in their friendship, one where he doesn't feel compelled to lodge even a nominal protest at her offer of doing dishes. 

_I mean, sure, listeners, the whole lengthy hug thing last night was also probably an indication that we're something more than colleagues, but...you know, on second thought, maybe I don't want to think too much about that right now._

If her face is warm, she tells herself firmly that it's just because she's standing over a sink of hot water. Strand, mercifully, doesn't notice; when she sneaks a glance at him she can see that he's tapping away on some emails, and she's halfway done with the dishes before he finally breaks the silence between them. 

"What would I call it?" he asks. 

She frowns over at him. "Huh?" 

"My hypothetical brunch establishment," he says, and she laughs. 

"Wow. You realize that you've basically just asked me to, uh, _pepper_ you with brunch puns, right?" 

He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. "No, I don't feel that's at all what I was ask--" 

"Boo-runch," she says, interrupting him. She grins widely and waves a soapy spoon at him. "You asked for this." 

"I really didn't," he says, but he's smiling. It's sort of a fondly exasperated smile and not at all the dazzling expression she got that night over wine and dinner, but she'll take it. 

"There's more where that came from," she says, grinning. "Which is good, because I feel like we haven't found it yet. Oh, hey, how about Fright-tata? Instead of frittata, get it?" 

"Alex, no." 

"You're smiling," she points out, and he covers his mouth with one hand. 

"I'm really not," he says, the sound muffled through his fingers. "Please stop. No one needs this many puns before noon." 

"Agree to disagree," she says merrily, as she dips her empty coffee cup into the soapy water. "Oh! How about Coffine, instead of caffeine? Combo coffee shop and brunch place. The 'e' is silent." 

"I wish _you'd_ be silent," he mutters, and she chuckles to herself as she continues. 

"You're going to laugh at one of these eventually, Strand," she teases, as he shakes his head in mock misery. "Let's see. Boolaungerie? Cookies and Scream. Creme Boo-lee?"

"I think you're veering away from brunch food," Strand complains. He picks up his empty tea cup and brings it over to the sink. "You can stop anytime, you know." 

"Hey, I left you eleven voicemails, remember," she reminds him. "I'm not very good at giving up on things." 

"Yes. This is entirely new information to me," he deadpans. 

"Uh huh. Oh, here's one. How about, Things that Go Brunch in the Night?" 

"I think it's possible that you should keep your day job," he says, and she laughs. At least, she laughs until she remembers that yes, she does have a day job, and it's a day job that has invited a whole host of things that go bump in the night to bump around her apartment. 

"It's true, I do have one of those. Aaand I should probably stop torturing you with puns and head back to my apartment at some point this morning," Alex sighs. "Or, I should at least get a suitcase and some of my things. I am absolutely not living there." 

"You should take a look around before you jump to conclusions," he advises, but before she can summon up a suitably indignant reply to his skepticism, he adds, "If you don't mind company, I'd actually like to come with you." 

It's a foregone conclusion that she will take him up on the offer, but she still makes herself think it over first before she agrees. "All right," she nods after a moment. She takes his tea cup from him and starts to wash it. "Since I have no idea where my car is, that...would be very helpful. I guess I should call Nic too, see if I can crash at his place for a while." 

"I'm beginning to think you don't like my guest room," he says, and it sounds like a joke, but when she looks over at him, she sees that he seems a little...disappointed? 

_Quick poll, listeners: this whole thing I seem to be developing for our professional paranormal skeptic isn't possibly mutual-- right? Tweet your responses as soon as you can. Preferably before I do something really, really inadvisable._

Flustered by her own thoughts, she stammers out a reply. "I don't-- it's fine, I just didn't want to assume-- I mean, it's not like you need me taking up your personal space, right?" 

"Well, I do have an embarrassment of riches when it comes to space," he points out, and she shrugs in agreement. 

"True," she says, biting her lip. She very much wants to say yes, but she doesn't want to sound too eager. They can be friends, but that's where the line is-- and it's a line she has to respect. Somehow. "I-- I mean. If you don't mind? That guest room-- which I promise I will actually sleep in-- would be a lot better than borrowing Nic's couch." 

"I really don't," he assures her. "Although...the terrible puns might need to be a point of negotiation." 

"Oh, come on," she teases, elbowing him gently in the side. "The puns are great and you know it." 

"If you say so," he grouses, but there is an undeniable sparkle in those eyes as he collects his laptop and makes to leave the kitchen. He hasn't laughed at one of these puns yet, and she takes it as a challenge. Fortunately, at that moment, inspiration strikes. 

"Wait!" she says, just as he leaves the room. 

He leans back around the corner of the doorway. "Yes?" 

"I've really got it this time," she tells him.

Strand raises a wary eyebrow. "Oh?" 

"Yep. Get this. It's an apple dessert place--"

"Oh, no," he says, already aware of where she's going with this. "No. I'm going to change clothes so we can leave, I am not listening to--" 

"You could call it _Applephenia_ ," she crows.

"Offer rescinded," he groans, shaking his head. "You can't stay here, you should call Nic." 

She's laughing too hard at her own joke to reply, so Strand just shakes his head again and ducks out of the room. But along with his footsteps fading away, she swears can hear him laughing, too. 

+  
After she finishes up with the dishes, she finds Strand back in the living room, dressed for the day but momentarily occupied with more emails. She doesn't even ask: from the look on his face she can tell he must be arguing with some paranormal investigator, and that could take a while. So she fishes her phone out of her bag and heads off to call Nic after all. 

"Simon Reese was _in your apartment_ ," Nic says, after she explains what she thinks happened. "With...wow." 

"Yeah. Needless to say, I'm...not going to be living there any longer." 

"That's...yeah, I wouldn't, either," Nic tells her. "Hey, do you need a place to stay? All I've got is the couch, but-- 

"I'll let you know," she interrupts. "I'm crashing at Strand's, at least for now." 

There is an uncomfortably long pause before Nic speaks again. 

"Uh. Okay." 

"He's got a spare room, it's not weird." 

"It is a little," Nic puts in.

"We've been working together for two years and he has a really big house for one person," she points out. She can feel her face heating in irritation. She needs to moderate her protests or Nic will start talking about ethics again, so she takes a breath and adds, "I've already got an apartment hunt going-- I'm sure it won't be long before I'm back on my own." 

"Okay," Nic says. "Well, I'm glad you're not hurt. And, Alex-- don't punch me through the phone for this or anything, but you're sure you didn't just dream this, right?" 

"You sound like Strand," Alex sighs, pushing away the thought that she is not nearly as irritated by Nic's disbelief as she was with Strand's. It's probably just because she's had some sleep, that's all. "I can only deal with one skeptic at a time, Nic." 

"Look, I'm not-- I believe you, Alex. If that's what you say happened, then that's what happened. I just...you're my friend, and I worry about you, and I know you haven't been sleeping well, and...I felt like I had to ask." 

"I know," she says, just as Strand steps into the kitchen, signaling that he's ready to go if she is. "Hey, I think we're going to head over to my place to check things out, so I'll talk to you later, okay?" 

"Yeah, definitely call me with an update about your haunted apartment," Nic says. "Oh, and as your producer I have to say: get some good audio, maybe?" 

"Sure, I'll be sure to stop and interview Simon if he's still there," she jokes. Across the room, Strand gives her a strange look, and she shrugs. 

"Be careful," Nic tells her. 

She promises to try, and ends the call.

+

Outside her apartment, Alex fumbles with the keys to her place. After a minute, she manages to unlock the door, but pauses before she turns the knob. "I...should probably record this," she says, apologetic that she has to turn their morning's friendly banter into work. 

But Strand only shrugs and says, "That's fine," so she pulls out a recorder and switches it on. 

"Okay," she says, gripping the doorknob tightly, "here we go." 

Inside, nothing is immediately different: the furniture is right where it should be, with no signs of a struggle and no blood to be found. They stand there for a few minutes, taking silent stock of the situation. 

_Believe me. Please._

"You're thinking _I told you so_ so loudly that I can hear it, you know," Alex grumbles. 

Strand only shrugs. "As I said last night, it doesn't matter what I think." 

"Yeah, well, if you think I'm losing it, you can just say so," she snaps, over her shoulder, as she rounds the corner of the hallway to her bedroom. And that is when they see it.

The wall of her hallway, where framed photos of her friends and family used to hang, is now covered in sacred geometry and other drawings. The familiar concentric circles and pentagram are the least frightening: all around the wall, from ceiling to floor, upside down faces sneer out at them. For a moment, she is sure they are moving, but then she blinks and everything is static once more. 

"Oh my god," Alex murmurs. "Where did these come from?"

"Our options seem fairly limited," Strand points out quietly, reluctantly, like the words are being pulled out of his throat against his will. 

"You can't think I drew these," she says, turning to inspect his face, to see for herself if what she thinks he is accusing her of is really there. "You _do_." 

Strand looks pained. "Logically, Alex--" 

"I. Did. Not. Draw. These." 

"All right," he says. "Well. You said that Amalia still has keys to your apartment." 

"Yes, but--" 

"Then that's the simplest explanation," he concludes, like they're trying to decide where to eat dinner instead of figuring out who drew an army of upside-down-faced demons all over her apartment wall. "But we can discuss it somewhere else, if that would make you more comfortable." 

"It would, actually," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. 

"Alex, I'm not trying to upset you." 

"Great! I'd hate to know how you'd sound if you were," she says, and pushes past him without another word. She thinks she hears him sigh as she shoulders her bedroom door open, but she tells herself it was probably just the door whistling as it whooshed across the faux-wood laminate. 

Angry at Strand's blithe skepticism and frustrated with her own inability to counter it, she concentrates so intensely on dumping clothes into a suitcase that she doesn't hear the closet door open, doesn't hear the quiet footsteps that pad up behind her. What she _does_ hear is the voice of Simon Reese in her ear, telling her not to make a sound as he slides his hand firmly over her mouth. She drops the recorder into her open suitcase. 

"You shouldn't have come back here, Alex," he whispers. "How can we keep you safe if you won't listen?" 

"We? Who is 'we,' Simon?" she asks, as soon as he lets go of her. 

"You already know," he says. 

"I found something in these designs you might find-- _you_ ," Strand hisses, when he catches sight of Simon. "How the hell did you get in here?" 

Alex watches in slow motion as Strand strides toward Simon Reese, his fist barely missing Simon's face as he turns and darts back into the recesses of Alex's small closet. There's a high-pitched sound, like the tight whistling of a can of compressed air, and then time speeds up again, everything moving as normal once more. 

Strand looks briefly to Alex. "I'm okay," she says, holding up her hands, and at that he ducks into the closet, pushing aside Alex's clothes, frantically searching for Simon Reese. 

"This isn't possible," Strand is muttering, as he finds nothing-- nothing, of course, except more strange markings on the back of Alex's closet, the same markings that once covered Simon's walls at Three Rivers State. "This doesn't make any sense." 

"On that, at least, we agree," she sighs, and leaves him to contemplate Simon's disappearance, gathering some of her things from the small bathroom at the end of the hall. When she returns and dumps them unceremoniously into her suitcase, she finds that Strand is still at the door to her closet, frowning at nothing.

"Alex," he says, still staring into the closet, "Alex-- where did he go?" 

"I don't know," she says. She zips up her suitcase. "But can we go too, please?" 

Something in her voice seems to bring him back to reality: he stops staring into the closet and turns back to her, a vaguely apologetic frown tugging at his lips. 

"Of course," he says, and before she protest, he takes her suitcase and heads back down the hall. She follows, slinging a duffel bag over her shoulder as she shuffles through the living room and finally locks the door behind them. 

In the elevator, Strand is the first to speak. 

"We should call the police." 

Alex looks up at him, incredulous. "And tell them what? A convicted murderer and fugitive appeared out of nowhere in my seventh floor apartment, drew arcane symbols all over my walls, then disappeared into a closet?" 

"He can't have disappeared into the closet. That _isn't_ possible. There has to be a logical explanation." 

"Okay," she says, completely past the point of arguing with someone who refuses to believe what he's seen with his own eyes. 

She turns off the recorder and shoves it into her purse. She doesn't speak again until they return to Strand's house, and then it's only to ask where to put her things for the time being. Strand at least seems to understand that he's upset her, and offers to take her suitcase to the guest room. Wordlessly, she sets her bags down by the front door and wanders away into the living room, curling up in what now seems to be her corner of his couch. Alex waits for a few minutes, or maybe half an hour, she honestly isn't sure. She occupies herself by rolling up the too-long legs of her borrowed sweatpants to her knees, idly picking at the worn cotton after she's done. At some point, Strand returns. He paces in front of her for at least ten minutes, gesturing wildly as he thinks through the events of the afternoon. 

_And here, listeners, we see our enigmatic skeptic in a whole new habitat: denial._

"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," she says, after a few minutes of watching him stalk around the room. 

"I'm _thinking_ ," he tells her. 

"I can see that. Are you still trying to debunk your way out of this?" 

"It doesn't make any sense," Strand insists, still pacing. "People can't just disappear into thin air. It defies all known laws of physics. There has to be a logical explanation, Alex." 

"You keep saying that," she sighs. "Like what?" 

He gestures wildly. "There must be a hidden panel in that closet. I understand if you don't want to return, but I need to get back in there and investi--" 

"Do you even realize how ridiculous you sound?" 

She wasn't sure if anything would stop his pacing, but that certainly does the trick: he stops moving so fast she thinks he almost loses his balance. "Excuse me?" 

"With your conspiracy theories," she exclaims. "You're actually willing believe that there's a _hidden door_ in my seventh floor apartment closet? Why? And where would it go? When was it built? The building is only ten years old, I moved in there four years ago, and I'm rarely ever away. So how did anyone know to put a hidden door in there ten years ago, before I even considered moving there? Listen to yourself." 

When he looks at her again, arms crossed, feet planted as though he has put down roots in the living room floor, he looks much more like a stubborn toddler than a man with two Ph.D's from Yale, and she almost tells him so.

"You took a sabbatical," he points out, after a moment. "You were away at that cabin. Anyone could have come and gone while you were out." 

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she swears. " _Why_ would anyone do that?" 

"I don't have any idea, Alex, but at least I can say that it's far more logical than _portals and demons_ ," he insists, practically spitting out the last few words. 

" _Why_?" she asks again. It makes her sound childish and she doesn't care; it still cuts deeper than she wants to admit that he won't just believe her, take her at her word, about what she saw last night, about what they both saw, today. 

"Because those things _don't exist_. Do I really need to tell you that?" 

"You've _actually seen them_ , you tell me!" she shouts, thinking of Cheryl and the things he won't say were on that tape. 

"That was a trick of the light," he growls. "I told you that already." 

"And Simon Reese? Was he a trick too? We both saw him. Today. In my apartment."

"Folie à deux," he barks, beginning to pace again. "There are documented cases of hallucinations shared by--"

"Richard," she says, her voice as flat as the floor he paces. "We did not collectively hallucinate Simon Reese." 

"I don't have a better explanation!" he exclaims.

"There are _plenty_ of better explanations," she shouts back, "you're just not willing to believe them!" 

_Or me_ , she thinks dully.

"Oh, fine, allow me to rephrase: there are _no_ better explanations that aren't just pointless conjecture," he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring down at her. This time, though, his stuffy know-it-all academic front doesn't phase her. Alex closes her eyes, stifling a momentary urge to scream in frustration. 

"Look," she continues, after taking a very deep breath that she hopes is calming, "I can't explain how he got there, and I can't explain how he left. And maybe science can, one day-- but maybe we just don't know enough yet. We used to think that mold and insects just spontaneously appeared on discarded food, but then science taught us that it's a natural process. We make new scientific discoveries _every day_. Why can't one of them be Simon Reese, and whatever it is that he can do? _That_ makes more sense to me than some weird conspiracy theory about hidden doors in my apartment." 

Strand is clearly not convinced-- but he also doesn't seem unconvinced. More than anything, he just looks _tired_. She didn't wake him up last night, she remembesr. How long has it been since he slept?

He sighs. "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy? That's your argument?" 

"Sure, Horatio, if that makes you feel better," she says, hoping he'll take the opportunity to laugh a little at her joke, relieve some of this awful tension.

Instead, he just sinks down next to her on the couch. "You know, I'm not sure that it does." 

They fall into silence again for a few minutes, each of them struggling alone to process the day's events, until finally, Alex knocks her knee against his. "Sooo, do we split that million dollars, or...?" 

For a moment, she's afraid her joke has landed somewhere on another planet instead of here in this conversation, but then he snorts out a laugh, and it's such an undignified sound coming from him that she lets her own laughter escape. 

"Do you want a drink?" he asks, a few minutes later.

"Um, yes, actually," she says, blinking at the subject change. "I would very much like a drink." 

"Fantastic," he sighs, and gets up to go pour two glasses of what turns out to be a very nice bourbon. 

It's not usually her drink of choice unless it's in a cocktail, but after the day she's had, she's not turning it down. She sips slowly from the glass he pours for her. It should be odd, sitting here in borrowed clothes at two in the afternoon, drinking bourbon with this man. But after the last twenty-four hours, she's not certain anything about Richard Strand-- or her, or her _and_ Richard Strand, whatever that turns out to be-- could manage to register as "odd" in her book, ever again. 

"I don't know if you're interested," he sighs, after they've both sat quietly with their thoughts for long enough that the bourbon in their glasses is running low. "But I did find something of a...clue, I suppose. Yesterday." 

"Oh?" 

He nods and shuffles aside some files on the coffee table, revealing a heavy, hardback book. It looks and smells old, the pages inside yellowed with age, but it's still in good condition-- not that it matters, since it's written in a language she can't read. 

"Is this...Russian?" she asks, peering at the script on a random page. She thinks of Amalia and the Unsound and winces, still guilty over something she didn't even do. 

"Close," he says, taking another sip of bourbon. "Bulgarian. Same language family." 

"Bulgarian?" Alex raises her eyebrows, questions spinning through her mind and immediately out of her mouth. "Do you know who wrote it? Do you know what it says? Does it have something to do with the monastery in Glushka? Where did it come from? Why didn't you--" 

Strand holds up his hand, stopping her stream of interrogatories. "No, not yet, I'm not sure, and I found it," he says. "In that order." 

"You found it," she says, flatly. 

"Well. It might be more accurate to say that it found me. Or someone did. It was left for me after a conference." 

"You don't have any idea who might have left it?" 

He shakes his head. "All I know about it at the moment is that the title roughly translates to _The Mantle of the Dragon_." He takes another drink. "Oh. And you might find the bookplate of some interest." 

"Okaaay," she says, flipping to the front of the book, eyes widening as she reads Howard's name. "This was your father's."

"So it would seem," he says, with a shrug. "Or so someone wants me to think." 

She frowns, but doesn't comment on the conspiracy theory angle. They've argued enough about that for one day. "Hmm. Have you uncovered anything else about that whole mantle thing? I can ask the interns to help, if you want." 

"I don't know," he sighs. "I found a few things. It all seems rather fantastical, to be honest." 

"Oh?" 

"Yes," he says, swirling the bourbon in his glass around. "It seems that it's some kind of order of people, possibly real at one time, possibly entirely a fabrication of some raving academic, that are intended to somehow avert the apocalypse." 

"Apocalypse," she says, shifting uncomfortably. 

"Apparently." He drains the rest of his drink before continuing. "This order of people, if it exists, is also supposedly connected genetically." 

"Genetic-- oh, god," she mutters, realizing suddenly why he needed that drink. "Are you-- do you think they'd involve Charlie?" 

"The thought occurred to me," he sighs. "I don't believe all of this, obviously, but someone does. And whoever those people are, I don't trust them not to try to hurt her. I... tried to call." 

"Tried?" Alex asks, hoping her voice conveys how sorry she feels about any part she might have had in Charlie's continuing reluctance to speak to her father. 

He sighs again, the sound of it deeper and sadder than she's ever heard from him. "She...doesn't want to hear from me, she made that clear." 

"Would she talk to me, do you think?" Alex asks. "She talked to me before. I could try sending her a Facebook message or something." 

"I don't know. You're welcome to try. I don't think I could stop you if that's what you wanted to do, and I don't think it's possible that she could be angrier with me than she already is, at any rate." 

"I'm sorry," Alex says softly. 

"It's not your fault," he sighs. 

She blames the bourbon for what she does. It seems simple enough, one friend providing comfort to another, as she reaches across the small space between them to lay her hand gently on his forearm. But as her hand rests there she realizes that nothing between them is simple, not really. Whatever he was going to say is halted as he stares down at her hand on his arm; she is wondering if she should take it away when he reaches across with his other hand and places it over hers. Her arm feels electrified; her heartbeat thuds in her ears. She struggles to pay attention and listen as he begins to speak again. 

"I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to extricate yourself from all of this permanently," he tells her. He's so close that she can see the lines around his eyes; vaguely, she wonders how long he's been battling insomnia, if she looks as tired as he does. "I think it's fairly obvious at this point that I have to see this through, but there's no reason for you to be caught up in all of it. Your-- your show isn't worth your life, Alex." 

"Listen to me," she says, squeezing his arm, "I know I ran last night, but I'm not running again. I want the truth. I want to find it and I want to tell the story. That's why I started this-- and I'm willing to keep looking for it if you are." 

"At some point you ought to consider your safety," he says. His thumb slides along the outside of her hand and she fights not to shiver at the touch. "I don't think anyone is safe around me, not until this mantle nonsense is over." 

"You're not getting rid of me that easily," she says firmly. His hand on hers is warmer than anything else she's ever felt, and if she leans a little closer, who could blame her? He looks so lost, and she wants to find him. "I'm not good at leaving things alone. You know I would have left you a twelfth voicemail, right?" 

"Yes," he says, with a sad smile. His hold on her hand tightens briefly. "But if something happened to you--" 

"Hey, I'm here," she interrupts, and emboldened by bourbon, she turns her hand over so that she is actually holding his hand now, her fingers laced between his. "I'm right here." 

"Alex, I know..." he begins, but his voice trails off as his eyes search her face, and he doesn't seem to be able to add anything further. 

She has no idea what emotion her own face betrays right now, but in his she swears she sees the same kind of longing she feels: a longing to let go, to stop fighting so hard against whatever this is. What happens, now, if she leans into this? Would it be so bad to cross this line? And what would that even look like? If they keep moving closer to one another, one of these days they will certainly find themselves occupying the same space at the same time, so it might as well be deliberate. For now, they are holding steady and still, but in her mind they are anything but: there, he cups her face tenderly, brushing hair away from her face, his thumb tracing the outline of her lower lip. She leans into the touch, barely daring to breathe as they move closer and closer, until-- 

"Alex?" 

She comes abruptly back to reality to find Richard staring over at her, his brow creased in concern. He is no longer holding her hand, which is probably for the best, considering where her thoughts had wandered.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

A blush creeps up her neck and spreads across her face. "Um, yeah, sorry," she says, fervently hoping that nothing she was just thinking showed on her face. For a distraction, she picks up her empty glass and slides it between her palms. "I was just...somewhere else for a minute there. You were saying?"

He looks her over carefully. "That depends. Where did I lose you?" 

"Uh. I think you said, 'I know,'" she supplies, shrugging when his wide eyes tell her that she had missed quite a bit of whatever he had to say while she was lost in her reverie. "Sorry. Long day. Maybe I didn't need that bourbon after all." 

"Right," he says, eying her empty glass with suspicion. Self-conscious, she places it carefully back on the coffee table. "Well. You didn't miss much." 

"Really, I'm back in the present," she promises, sitting up straight and taking great care to lean back, away from him. "So. You know...?" 

He doesn't reply right away, leaving her wondering whatever it is that he had actually said. It seems as though she'll have to keep wondering, because when he does finally speak again, what he says is not on any of a long list of possibilities. "I know...I know that Bloody Mary is a much better name for a supernaturally-themed brunch place than Applephenia." 

" _Wow_ ," she says, surprised laughter following the only word she can summon. As much as she wants to know what he really said, she finds that she is incredibly grateful for the excuse to expend some of the excess energy that had been building in her stomach since she reached for his hand. "How long have you been holding that one in?" 

"Most of the day. I thought surely you'd think of it," he says, folding his hands together and leaning back into the couch. It's strange to see him looking so pleased with himself for something that has nothing to do with debunking paranormal phenomena, but it's a good look nevertheless. 

"Well, well, well," she says, shaking her head. "It's not bad." 

He raises an eyebrow. "Just not bad?" 

"Well, yeah. I'm not convinced that Bloody Mary is better than Applephenia," she says, stifling a yawn. "I'm just not sure it's what the people want." 

"I think most people like bloody marys," he says. 

"True, but we're in Washington," she points out. "We have apples everywhere. It would cut down on your margins if you sourced something locally." 

He looks at her like he has never seen her before. "Margins? Sourcing?" 

"I feel like you know what margins are." 

"I do, but it just seems a little...outside your milieu," he says, and she shrugs. 

"My parents own a bookstore in Portland," she explains. "When the internet happened, younger Alex heard _a lot_ about margins." 

"Really?" 

"Yep. The bookstore's called Ex Libris, by the way," she tells him, smiling. "Used books, get it?" 

He chuckles. "So the bad puns are genetic." 

"They're good puns," she laughs, "and yes, possibly." 

"Whatever you say," he says, and with that, he stands and collects their empty glasses. As soon as he leaves the room, she slumps all the way back into the couch, wishing it would swallow her up.

 _Listeners, I don't know what just happened to me, but if I'm going to start losing minutes of my time to daydreaming about kissing this man, maybe I need to rethink this whole 'crashing at Richard's place' thing._ She groans. _Richard. I'm calling him Richard, now, I guess, all the time. Listeners, I'm beyond help. Don't send any._

She still has her eyes closed, lost in embarrassed thought, when he returns, his voice once again interrupting her-- thankfully mundane, makeout-free-- thoughts. 

"Alex? Are you sure you're okay?" 

_Totally fine._ , she thinks, _I regularly lose minutes out of a day thinking about kissing my colleagues and friends._

"Well," she says, spreading her hands, "I haven't found my car, I need to start looking for an apartment, and I still have to produce the next episode, not to mention sleep through the night...And you probably think I've totally lost the plot if you're distracting me with haunted brunch puns." Her hands slap down against the couch cushions as she lets her arms fall to her sides. "So sure. I'm great." 

"I don't think you've lost anything," he assures her. "I do think you need some sense of normalcy in your life for a few hours." 

"Normalcy?" she laughs. "That's not going to happen. Have you seen my life right now?" 

Richard, however, just shrugs. "I know this seems like a purely academic exercise, but humor me: what would you have done with your day, before all this started?" 

"Honestly? Head to the studio, do some work, go home, probably eat dinner on my couch, and watch an unreasonable number of episodes of something on Netflix." 

"That seems workable," he says. "Work and a meal, at least. I haven't exactly made the acquisition of a modern television a priority." 

_You're all thinking this is Netflix and chill, listeners, but I promise you, I am not going to be the one who explains to Richard Strand what that phrase means._

"I've got my laptop and you've got internet," she points out, and to her surprise, he agrees almost immediately. 

They work. They talk through everything that happened in her apartment, last night and today; they discuss the strange mantle book, all on the record. Even the things, like his family's involvement, that in the past have made him clam up faster than a bad shellfish at Pike Place, don't even elicit a moment's pushback. It's good, because they make great time, but it's also extremely curious, so halfway through recording some material for the podcast, she clicks off the recorder, sets it next to her on the couch, and stares at him like he's the book she holds the cipher for. 

"Why are you being so nice to me?" 

"I'm usually nice to you," he says, frowning as he adds, "I hope." 

"Well, yeah," she says, then she waves her hands over the mountains of _potentially paranormal nonsense_ \--his words, not hers-- they've been wading through and discussing all afternoon. "But...this is different." 

Richard takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Alex, I'm trying to apologize." 

"For what?" 

Instead of replying immediately, he cleans a spot on his glasses that she strongly suspects is not there. "For not believing you," he says finally, so quietly that she barely hears it. 

She sits back, shocked. _Believe me._ "Does...that mean you believe me now?" 

He slips his glasses back on, and when he meets her eyes, she can see the unease there. "I..." 

It's not a lot-- strictly speaking, it's really nothing-- but somehow, everything he can't say is everything she needed to hear. 

"Aha. A bridge too far, huh?" she teases, and winks to take the sting out of it. She holds up the recorder. "That's all right. Back to work?"

+

Later, they push together a few boxes of Howard's things, forming a makeshift coffee table: after a few hours of work, the real one is entirely too covered in papers now to be functional. Alex sets her laptop on the boxes and calls up Netflix while Richard heads to the kitchen for food. 

He returns in about ten minutes, holding bowls of salad-- a truly underwhelming description for the bowls full of greens and feta and nuts that he carries-- and gestures for her to pick something to watch. For a laugh, she hovers for a few moments more than she needs to on the image of her favorite ghost hunting show. 

"No. Absolutely not. Given the events of the morning, and my desire to appear at least somewhat penitent, I am willing to indulge you in this Netflix viewing, but I am _not_ watching _Ghost Adventures_ ," he objects.

"Fine, but you're missing out," she laughs. 

"I'm really not," he tells her, disdain dripping from every word, which of course only makes her laugh harder. He is the very picture of a stuffy academic as he adjusts his glasses and looks down at her, demanding, "Did you know that man has written multiple books about his supposedly 'true' accounts of the paranormal?"

She pauses midbite, a forkful of greens and feta hovering halfway between her bowl and her mouth. "Which man?"

"The _overly muscled_ one," he says, stabbing towards the screen with his fork. 

She laughs again, loudly. "You mean Zak?" 

"Yes." 

"He wrote books? Plural?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh, please, _please_ : tell me he used a ghostwriter," 

Richard shifts on the couch and makes an extremely sour face, like he's eaten ten lemons at once. 

"Oh my god, he _did_." The only reason she doesn't clap her hands together in delight is the salad bowl. 

"Yes. It's a veritable parody of itself," he grumps. 

She chuckles. "Okay, so, no Ghost Adventures. But you _are_ going to have to tell me about those books later." 

Richard makes a pained face. "Please, don't make me relive that experience. I will never regain those two hours of my life." 

"Hmmmm. I should invite him onto the show," Alex muses. "Maybe he can bring a new perspective to our investigations." 

"Oh, of course. I'm sure if you merely suggested that he might have encountered any mysterious shadow figures bent on the destruction of the human race, his _extreme_ apophenia would lead him to recount any number of relevant experiences for you." 

"You are _not_ very good at taking a joke," she laughs, elbowing him playfully in the ribs. If she has to subtly slide a little closer to do so, surely there's no harm done. What's a joke between friends, after all? It's not like she was thinking about kissing him earlier, or anything. 

"I'm trying to raise the level of discussion in this field," he reminds her. It's the closest thing to _whining_ she's ever heard from him, and she stifles another laugh. "People like that undermine my life's work with every ridiculous episode they release. Not to mention, half of his book is about the paranormal problems that follow him around, which sometimes he believes he accidentally passes on to other people. The last thing you need is additional help falling asleep." 

There's an odd note in his voice that she can't quite place-- a tiny voice in the back of her mind whispers that it's jealousy, wrapped up in some strange Strandian brand of protectiveness. It reminds her more than a little of the way he acted around Tannis Braun, and she opens her mouth to ask him about it, but stops just short of vocalizing her question. It would make things awkward, violate the strange sanctity of this place, the only place in many months that she's felt truly safe, and she is unwilling to trade that away for some half-formed notion that Richard might spend any of his waking moments thinking as affectionately of her as she tries not to think of him. 

"All right, all right. No ghost hunting, I get it. Weeelll...how do you feel about The X-Files?" He startles, and she looks over at him, concerned. "Richard?" 

"Alex, I-- I'm not sure that's--is that appropriate?" 

In that horrible moment, she realizes two things: Richard Strand has never heard of The X-Files, and Richard Strand thinks she is suggesting they watch porn. 

Her eyes wide and face growing redder by the moment, she sets aside her salad bowl and waves her hands as though she could physically push away the embarrassment she feels if only she tried hard enough. "Oh my god, it's not-- I wouldn't ask-- um, it's, look," she says, typing frantically in the search bar. "See? It's a show about FBI agents investigating the paranormal, it's not...um. Yeah." She gestures at the screen, which now displays the very attractive but also very clothed images of Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny, holding flashlights and gazing out into the distance. 

"Oh," Richard says, visibly relaxing back into the couch. 

"Um. Right. So, the X-Files are what the FBI calls their weird, unsolved cases, in the show." 

He raises an eyebrow. "Not unlike, shall we say, a certain podcast I know?" 

She grins. "Hey, I never said I was clever." 

"I have to disagree with you there," he says, and her face warms now for an entirely different reason.

"Um, thanks. Anyway, the X-Files is great. It has something for everyone: monsters of the week and ghost stories," she says, pointing to herself, "scientific skepticism and high-level conspiracies," she continues, pointing at Richard, who shakes his head at her as she goes on to say, " _and_ , did I mention, it also has one charming yet horribly single-minded person who wants to believe and is willing to go to any lengths to find the truth, plus one irritatingly logical but strangely endearing scientist struggling to explain the unexplainable with science and rationality?" 

He clears his throat. "Strangely endearing?" 

She lets out at exaggerated sigh. "Have you really never heard of this show? Agents Mulder and Scully, the truth is out there, trust no one, I want to believe, et cetera? None of this is ringing a bell, is it," she states, as he looks over at her with increasing bemusement. 

"This may come as a surprise, but I don't watch a lot of television." 

"You're right: color me shocked," she laughs. 

"I watch _the news_ ," he protests, somewhat plaintively, and she just laughs and taps a button on her laptop. The opening scene of _Pilot_ begins to play, and he frowns at the screen. "Alex, are you sure this is the best thing to watch right now?" 

"Oh, be quiet, Scully," she laughs, and he blinks in confusion, but he doesn't protest again. 

They make it mostly through the pilot without too many grumblings from Richard about the scientific method, which Alex considers to be a small victory. By the time they make it to _Squeeze_ , she's started to consider his occasional whispered haranguing to be just another part of her viewing experience, and if it rises to the level of a distraction, she just knocks into him with a knee or an elbow and he quiets again. 

If he's bored out of his mind, he doesn't let on. Most likely, he still thinks of this as penance for upsetting her earlier, but maybe he's actually enjoying the show, despite himself. Either way, Alex can feel the tension of the last twenty-four hours slowly dissipating. Her shoulders return to a reasonable distance away from her ears; her jaw is no longer clenched. Even as the sun goes down and darkness fills the room, the shadowy corners here look normal and friendly, not sinister and strange. 

Somewhere in the middle of _Conduit_ , she can feel herself start to drift off. Half asleep, she leans a little closer to Richard, who does not protest. In fact, he moves his arm to the back of the couch, giving her space to slide closer. 

_I know what you're thinking, listeners, but you're wrong. It totally wasn't that classic move where someone moves an arm so they have their arm around the other person "accidentally." I'm pretty sure he was just...stretching. Probably. Yeah. I mean...probably._

By the middle of the episode she has taken the invitation his arm offers and completely invaded his personal space, curled up against his side with her head pressed against his ribs, lazily registering the sound of his heartbeat, the faint scent of his cologne, the brush of his fingertips against her shoulder. She doesn't want to feel so at home here; she knows it can't last. It's a temporary peace, at best, surely. She'll take it as long he lets her. 

Some time later, she stirs in her sleep. She feels like she's walking uphill, but that can't be right, since she's asleep, and inside a house. 

"Come on, Alex. It's not the couch, I know," she hears someone say. Richard, she thinks. That's nice. It's not the first time she's dreamed about him, but it is possibly the weirdest thing she's dreamed, that he's talking about the couch where she's sleeping. 

Then her back meets something soft and warm, and blankets slowly settle across her, and she comes suddenly awake with the realization that Richard Strand, noted skeptic, occasional jackass, unexpected lighthouse in the sleepless stormy sea of her life, has helped her to bed. 

She squints into the light of the hallway, where she sees him silhouetted against the doorframe of the guest bedroom.

"Richard?" 

"I'm sorry. I was trying not to wake you, although that didn't seem entirely possible," he murmurs. "Did you need something?" 

Does she? She's safe here. She knows that. But the room is dark and still unfamiliar and she misses the warmth of him at her side. More than that, she's just too tired to keep hiding what she wants. 

"Stay with me?" she manages to ask, and holds her breath, unable to judge his expression with his back to the light of the door. 

"I'll get a chair," he says, after a moment. 

She swallows hard and clarifies. "That's...not what I meant." 

He doesn't say anything, and for a horrible twenty seconds she knows she's overstepped. This will be the end of this...whatever it is, and though professionally, she knows it's for the best, personally, she is already grieving its loss. But then he's crossing the room to the opposite side of the bed, and he's shuffling out of his shoes, and putting his glasses on the bedside table. It isn't until the bed dips slightly to accommodate his additional weight that she even allows herself to take another breath. 

"Better?" he asks, when he's settled beside her, a foot away but too close and too far all at once. 

"Yes," she breathes, in a relieved exhale. She barely even hesitates for a moment before she reaches out to grasp his hand. Rather than pull away, he lets her slide her fingers between his; he even gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "This is a better apology," she mumbles, sleepily, and he laughs, the sound of it like well-worn wool, soft and scratchy at the same time.

"Get some sleep, Alex," he says, and she closes her eyes. 

She meets sleep like an old friend, and she doesn't wake until morning.

+

 _Hi, you've reached the voicemail box of Alex Reagan! I can't come to the phone right now, so please leave a message after the beep._

"Hi Alex! It's your favorite intern! Well, I hope I'm your favorite. Um. Anyway, sorry to call so late, but you asked me to look into Doctor Monique Bernier, and I've got some things I think you'll probably want to see, like, ASAP. Call me back whenever you can!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Ghost Adventures. They really did write books! You can find them on Amazon. 
> 
> 2) The X-Files: I know, I know, the Strand Institute account has tweeted about The X-Files at some point, which _technically_ is a canonical acknowledgment that Richard knows about it. HOWEVER, I also know that a) I do what I want and b) I wrote that whole piece a million years before the tweet happened sooooo let's just say he knows about it now and this is why??? (Also I swear there's also a tweet where he didn't know who Scully was. But maybe I dreamed that.) 
> 
> 3) I'm not sorry about all the puns.
> 
> +++
> 
> Next time, on The Black Tapes (fanfic edition): Richard struggles with the burden of being the world's most reluctant clairvoyant, Alex gets some unwelcome news about a certain sleep therapist, and a mysterious book cipher threatens to unravel everything. Stay with us!


	6. 3R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard Strand: human disaster, take two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! My life goals for 2018 include posting the rest of this monster (and its several sequels, oh dear), so we're going to be picking up the pace here in the next few installments and things may be a bit less remix-y than they've been previously. 
> 
> Happy New Year, and thanks again for sticking with this story!

Around five o'clock on Monday morning, Richard wakes in an unfamiliar bed, momentarily startled out of sleep by the strange feeling that someone is kicking his leg. Confused, he turns his head and finds, to his brief astonishment, the sleeping profile of one Alex Reagan. 

How did-- ah. Yes. _That._

He shouldn't be here, with her, like this. He shouldn't have said yes. But it had been such a long day-- or year, or ten, or twenty-- and she had been so warm against his side, there on the couch, the two of them slowly moving ever closer to one another until there was no space between them, her professionalism abandoned, his misgivings shoved aside. He shouldn't have missed the warmth of her next to him, afterwards. But he had. 

So when she had murmured, "Stay with me," her arm outstretched, her voice full of hope, and worry, and exhaustion, and something he strongly suspects was need-- he stayed. He stayed, despite several lists and internal warning alarms so loud he was surprised she hadn't heard them, and both of them have passed a perfectly restful night in each other's company, a first for him in he doesn't know how long.

So, he now he has reason to know that Alex, when lost in peaceful dreams on something larger than a couch, somehow manages to defy her slight height and sprawl across the _entire_ space she is offered, as though her sense of determination and zeal will not be denied, even in sleep. She had called him _strangely endearing_ yesterday, hadn't she? Well, the feeling is unfortunately mutual. 

He smiles, a terribly tender expression that rather immediately devolves into a frown as he considers his situation. 

This is all very bad. 

He reaches for his glasses on the bedside table and slips them on, then proceeds to stare resolutely at the ceiling instead of at the woman sleeping soundly at his side. How has it come to this? Not very long ago-- mere days, even-- he was a man with a list of reasons to maintain a certain level of professional distance from this woman, but oh, how things have unraveled. A different list takes shape now, one that enumerates his many failures, all to be filed under _Reagan, Alex; Maintaining Emotional and Physical Distance From_ , soon to be subtitled, _if you know what's good for you, which you clearly do not_. 

So many small failures, each one compounding on its predecessors. To wit: he makes her breakfast, he makes her dinner, and he makes her laugh. He reads to her when she can't sleep. He holds her when she's tired and afraid, or at any other point that he can make a reasonable excuse to do so. He watches far too many hours of what thankfully was only a network television show about the supposedly unexplainable, but can he honestly say if it had been something else he wouldn't have agreed? He was six inches away from kissing her yesterday, and he's fairly certain she was thinking about the same thing, for which he blames a combination of the bourbon he shouldn't have suggested and the general stress of the day. 

He sighs. The _stress of the day_ is perhaps a criminally underwhelming way to describe being confronted with paranormal problems of a magnitude that even _he_ finds difficult to debunk, but he can only deal with one life-altering scenario at a time. Right now, he's focusing on the one next to him. Asleep and oblivious, Alex shifts around under the blankets, mumbling something in her sleep. Without even thinking, he reaches over and adjusts the duvet back over her shoulder, covering the bare skin peeking out where her shirt has shifted while she slept. 

This is fine, except it isn't, and it will probably end in misery, but at this point all he can do is hope it's his and not hers. It's probably unavoidable, now that he's basically told her to move in, and what dark lonely corner of his mind had _that_ brilliant idea sprung from? For nearly twenty years he's managed to avoid this sort of thing, decades in which he mostly kept to himself, aside from the occasional late night at a conference with a bottle of something nice and a willing colleague to share it with. But it was never anything he wanted to last, never anything that would have left him with something to lose. Being hopelessly in love with your legally dead wife, as it turns out, is something of a hindrance when it comes to forging new relationships, and perhaps more so if said wife periodically sends you strange messages in a variety of different mediums, each more cryptic than the last. 

She's never really been gone from his life, not entirely, and at times it has seemed the breadcrumbs she has chosen to leave behind have been worse than her total absence. Certainly they never fail to raise more questions than give answers. Notes on cocktail napkins. Computerized voices on answering machines. Coded fax messages from numbers that can only send and never receive-- that one had always seemed particularly appropriate. Whatever she had wanted with him, he wishes he knew. The more he uncovers, the less likely it seems that it was love-- which makes this entire predicament in which he currently finds himself all the more wholly ridiculous. 

Twenty years of doing everything he could to ensure he had nothing left to lose, no one important to walk away from, and it all comes apart in two years because of a doe-eyed tenacious reporter and her _radio on-demand_? Take _that_ , everyone in the paranormal investigators' community. _Strand is heartless,_ they've said, or, _Strand is impenetrable_ , or _What kind of doctorates does he have, anyway, Ph.D's in being a real son-of-a-bitch_? It doesn't matter that he's carefully cultivated that reputation, of course; it matters that they're all _wrong_. Come see the softer side of Richard Strand! Folds like a badly baked soufflé at the sound of Alex Reagan's voice. Still half in love with a woman who only communicates through book ciphers. Occasionally has prescient dreams. Actually, never mind that last part. 

"I'm too old for this," he grumbles, as Alex slumbers on beside him. He shifts away from her a little, testing the waters to see if he can get up without disturbing her, and grimaces as his lower back immediately reminds him that he has no business sitting on bathroom floors in the middle of the night, even if he's providing aid and comfort to the aforementioned doe-eyed tenacious reporter and feeling every single one of his fifty-six years with each passing moment. 

He should get up now and take some aspirin, or a leave of absence, or something, before his sanity takes leave of him. 

Wasn't it just two days ago they were having dinner and she was winking at him and he was _so_ confident that he could handle himself? No harm will come from it, he distinctly remembers thinking at the time. Then again, he supposes, it was probably easier to delude himself into thinking he could do this without any kind of emotional entanglements when he _wasn't_ sharing a bed with her. 

Lists are clearly useless. He won't make any more of them. It doesn't seem to matter, and worse still, he's starting to think, given the strange long moment yesterday when she sat on the couch and held his hand and stared at him like she was lost at sea and he was her anchor, that he isn't alone in needing the lists, and _that_ is an entirely different species of problem. Alex, after all, doesn't have his baggage, and as a result, she doesn't need his restraint. If she decides that he's what she wants, she will let him know, likely sooner than later, and then what? He has a well-established track record of not being able to say no to her. What happens if he says yes? Another catastrophe? That, he doesn't think he could survive. Not again. 

He could say no to all of this, of course. He hasn't. He won't. Because Alex-- tenacious, relentless, determined Alex-- as far as he can tell, has no hidden agendas. She's like water in a desert in that regard. No secrets, no potential cult affiliations, no mysterious disappearances-- no, all of that is only on his side of the fence. Alex, for her part, just loves a good ghost story, whether it's Hamlet or his black tapes. She loves coffee and breakfast and mysteries. Whether or not she loves the man at the center of her current mystery remains to be seen, but that doesn't bear thinking about, surely. Certainly not right now. 

He sighs again, deeper this time. Alex mumbles in her sleep, but doesn't wake. If he _were_ actually able to see the future, surely he could have seen any this coming. 

_Didn't you?_ His own voice in his thoughts is so smug it seems invasive, and he suddenly feels an odd pang of guilt for the many times he has turned that haughtily skeptical tone on other people at conferences, even if they were asking especially insipid questions and therefore deserved a little derision. 

_But is this who you want to be? Is this really who you are?_

He closes his eyes against the sound of those questions. When will she ask? It must be soon. The two of them are moving towards something-- speeding rather inevitably toward it, if the current situation is anything to judge by-- but when will they get there? And what comes next? 

The future, of course. But good or ill? 

He may not have seen this exact scenario coming, but he certainly knew about the thing in her apartment. Not for the first time since he flung open the front door to find her, terrified, hurtling toward him in the dark, he feels deeply remorseful about his silence. He should have said something to her about the... _visions_. Even thinking about the word is unpalatable, but what other language does he have for this? 

He tried to tell her. He did. They were standing there in the foyer while she shook from the adrenaline and the cold and he wanted so badly to explain, but the words just wouldn't leave his mouth. He thought of trying again when they went to her apartment and he saw for himself a room he had never seen before, but had somehow dreamed in intricate detail. And then they saw the wall of symbols, and then Simon Reese, and then there was bourbon, and not-quite-confessions of an entirely different variety. 

_I know I'm not what you need, but am I what you want?_

The whole thing almost unraveled on him yesterday. He almost _asked_ that. Aloud. Where she could hear it. 

Instead he'd rambled on about how he didn't want anything to happen to her, and maybe she really should reconsider this investigation, please, because he's had a life marked by too many losses, thank you very much, and he'd rather lose her to her own safety than to a cult, or worse. All of that is true. None of it was anything he wanted her to agree to, because selfishly, he wants her _here_. 

But he does want her safe, and safe is not what he has to offer. Especially if he can't manage to make the dreams go away again. So he has to be more careful. He has to not offer her bourbon and then hold her hand. He has to not give her his own clothes to wear when she turns up here in the middle of the night wearing, of all things, boxer shorts with cartoon ghosts on them. Of course. Another strangely endearing thing. 

This has been...very different from his previous relationships, that's certain. Not that it is one. 

Or maybe it is. Maybe it's already too late. He all but said it, earlier this year in Chicago, when he hadn't slept in over a week and she'd turned up looking kind and concerned and helpful and caring, and he'd had the vaguely deranged notion that he should ask her to dinner, but instead ended up pulling her back into the center of all the strange mysteries that make up his life. Dinner would have been so much simpler than saying, _You and I. We have a..._ A what, exactly? A relationship of a slightly more than professional nature? An understanding? A mutual inability to let things go? All of the above? 

Whatever it was, she'd agreed at the time, and circumstances indicate that she hasn't changed her mind. Otherwise what was she doing out here, tired and afraid and wet from the rain and so desperate for him to believe her? 

_Perhaps she wouldn't have had to be here at all if someone had warned her about the thing in her apartment_ , nags a voice in his head, and he closes his eyes against the weight of the guilt. Did he want her here? Is that what kept him from telling her about what he'd seen? Or is he just too incapable, after forty years of shutting this thing away, of admitting that he might be wrong? 

Either way, he owes her an apology. He owes her _many_ apologies, and somehow he doesn't think that making her breakfast, or watching fictional FBI agents chase liver-eating humanoids, or keeping her company while she slept, make enough of one to really count. But if he says, _I'm sorry_ , there are so many other remarkably unpleasant words that will have to accompany that expression of remorse, and how would he even go about it? 

"I think it's possible that I can see the future and my whole life as a debunker of paranormal phenomena has been an elaborate lie of my own making," is probably as succinctly as he can put it, which, of course, he _won't_. It's absurd. No one can know the future, even him, despite the several occasions on which it has certainly seemed that way. The mind makes patterns out of almost anything. And _even if_ one made the _deeply_ flawed assumption that such a thing were to be possible, and further, that _he_ is a person possessed of such an ability, well, it also seems a fair question from her point of view might be, "Then why didn't you warn me about the waking nightmare I saw in my living room before it happened?" which he still doesn't know how to answer. More likely than not, _Well, as you know, Alex, I don't believe in the supernatural,_ will not be an acceptable explanation to her at this point in time. It's not really even an acceptable explanation _to him_ at this point in time. 

So, yes. He should have said something, for all the good it would have done. He's said things before, and it didn't get him anything but heartache: Bobby is still dead; Coralee is still gone. What good is seeing the future if you can't do anything to change it? That isn't a gift. It's a curse. 

He sighs again. It's times such as these when being an atheist seems much more difficult than believing that there is, actually, some greater force at work in the multiverse than mere humanity, and that whatever it is, it hates Richard Strand particularly much. As if to punctuate that cheery thought, Alex kicks him in her sleep. It hurts, but he smiles, then promptly stifles a groan. If there's a white flag to be raised around here somewhere, he needs to find it, and fast. 

But it won't be today, he thinks, as he carefully slides out of bed so as not to disturb her and heads downstairs to cook her breakfast. 

+

"Good morning," he says, when she shuffles into the kitchen, her hair half a mess, still blinking sleep from her eyes. He won't ask her how she slept, he decides, because she will probably say that she slept very well, and then he might say that this arrangement should continue, possibly not in the guest bed and also possibly without the hindrance of either propriety or pajamas. And regardless of the manner of her response to that, things will change, and he's over his limit on change at present.

Mercifully, she doesn't bring it up either, settling instead for coming to stand somewhat closer to him than the situation calls for as she peers down into the skillet. 

"Bacon?" she asks.

"You don't like bacon?" 

"No, I do," she shakes her head. "It's just-- well. I'm not complaining, or anything, but everything you make is pretty...elaborate. By my standards, anyway. Which we have established are low when it comes to food that I can cook. But my point was-- are you feeling okay?" 

He does not say, "Yes, well, I was trying to regain some equilibrium after discovering that I very much like sleeping next to you, which is not a thing I should know about myself, and this was the simplest thing I could come up with because I am apparently what the interns and anyone under the age of thirty-five refers to as _extra_ , and please, tell me you don't say things like that or this will all immediately get a lot worse for me." 

Instead, he simply clears his throat and says, "It's possible the bacon is intended to be a crisp and savory topping for some ginger and orange pancakes," and she laughs, and he loves her, but he doesn't _say_ it, at least. 

"That does sound more like you," she smiles, and before he can sink any further into despair over the kindness in that expression, he nods over at the table and says, "There's also coffee." 

She thanks him with another warm smile that borders on openly affectionate, and goes to pour herself a cup from the French press he picked up last week. She takes a sip, sighs happily, and he finds that both he and the bacon are very done. 

The bacon, at least, will be a nice complement to the pancakes, he thinks, tipping the sizzling strips of bacon out onto a plate next to the stove. He, on the other hand, is presently at the mercy of Alex Reagan's soft morning smile, a thing he should not know exists but which he now cannot imagine his mornings without. 

"Hey, when did you get this?" Alex asks, tapping the French press. "I don't think I've seen it before." 

"Oh," he says, attempting nonchalance, "I found it last week. I thought it might be useful." 

He doesn't say that he found it _in a store_ , or that he specifically went to that store to buy the damn thing _for her_. He definitely does not explain further that those purchases were perhaps not limited to a coffee maker, or that in the absence of any kind of definition to this nebulous thing that floats between them, he knows it isn't really his place to buy her things, but he can't seem to _stop_. So instead he's just been leaving things around the house in the hopes that she'll appreciate the convenience of an upgraded coffee maker, or better pillows, or softer towels, or what have you. It's not the best sort of courtship, but it can't really be one unless one or both of them is willing to broach the subject, so for now he's doing the best he can. He withholds a sigh and begins ladling pancake batter onto a griddle. 

"It's nice," she says. "Good coffee, too." 

"I'm glad," he says, and for a moment all is peaceful silence while she drinks her coffee and he concentrates on pancakes, an expression of love that continues to go without saying, as needs must. 

Alex comes to stand next to him again, half a cup of coffee in her hand, an afterthought now as she stares down at the slowly cooking batter in the pan. "How do you know when it's time?" 

He almost drops the spatula into the batter. "Time? For what?" 

"To flip the pancakes," she says, nodding down at the griddle. "How do you know when to do it?" 

His heart resumes a more normal cadence, and he strives to portray what he hopes is his usual air of detached amusement. "Ah. Trade secret," he says. He doesn't wink at her, but he is smiling, and this all seems far more flirtatious than detached, really, but it's too late to pull it back now. Then again, he isn't the only one struggling with detachment, either, if the sly smile on her face is any indication. 

"Oh?" she says. "Is there a secret order of pancake cooks that I should be investigating?" 

"Possibly," he says. "The Illuminati wish their secrets were as well-guarded." 

"I see," she drawls. His heart hammers for an entirely different reason, now, and she will be the death of him, probably. "And?" 

He clears his throat. "Well. If I share the secret knowledge of pancakes with you, you _will_ have to promise to keep it off the air." 

"Sure," she says, grinning. Is she standing closer than she was? It's hard to say. "I even promise not to leave some poor sous chef eleven voicemails trying to get to the bottom of this."

"All sous chefs in the greater Seattle area just breathed a collective sigh of relief," he says, and she shakes her head.

"Very funny. So. What's the secret?" 

"Air," he says, pointing at one of the pancakes with the flat end of the spatula, slipping comfortably into a micro-lecture on the finer points of flipping pancakes. It's a little more didactic than flirtatious, he finds, and therefore a nice distraction from the nearness of her. "There's baking powder in the batter, and baking powder is essentially baking soda with a heat-reactive compound added. Baking powder reacts to heat, as well as to the acidity of the buttermilk in the batter, by forming bubbles. Therefore, as the batter is exposed to the heat from the stove, bubbles inevitably form in the pancake. You want to watch the ones that are close to the edges. When they burst," he says, gesturing again as one of the pancakes obliges with a perfectly timed example of his explanation, "and stay open instead of closing up again, it indicates that there's a fairly cooked layer underneath and you can flip the pancake without destroying it. See?" 

She peers down for a moment as he demonstrates, then leans back and shakes her head. "Yeah, no. That sounded like science, but it's basically sorcery, to me, sorry." 

He chuckles. "It _is_ science, and it's fairly simple. You can try it yourself," he says, offering her the spatula and trying not to maintain an air of mildly indifferent amusement as she looks at the simple kitchen implement like it might be a deadly weapon. "It's only a spatula." 

"No, no, that's okay. Look, I'm just-- I'm _not a wizard_ ," she says, waving her hands. "Remember the burned toast? I'm about as far from mastering the magic of cooking as it's possible to get. Maybe we should start with something simpler. Like...cereal." 

"You won't get any better if you don't try," he points out, flipping another pancake with practiced ease. It is, perhaps, advice he should take to heart about whatever this thing is, with the two of them, but he ignores that thought. 

"That may be true, but I just don't think I'm cut out to be a wizard." 

He thinks for a moment, unsure how to relate to someone who refers to cooking as wizardry, and combs through a scant mental catalogue of recent modern media. "Well, I'm sure even Henry Potter started somewhere." 

Alex leans back further. "Henry? Who is Henry-- oh. Oh, Richard, no." 

Again he recalls the intern's _human disaster_ moniker for him, and contemplates for what might be the thousandth time how very apt it seems, then gives her an embarrassed smile as he flips another pancake. At least he's good at _that_. "I...got that wrong, didn't I." 

"A little bit. It's, um, _Harry_ , not Henry," she laughs, patting his arm. "Harry Potter. But it was a good effort." 

"Right," he says. "As you may imagine, books about magical children have not been terribly important to my métier, aside from their exemplification of Campbell's hero's journey, at any rate." 

"Yes, you're right, I'm absolutely shocked that you don't know your Hogwarts house," she laughs, and then sets her coffee cup on the counter next to the stove. "Okay, you know what, if you can try to figure out pop culture, I can try to figure out pancakes. Here, give me that," she says, reaching out to take the spatula from him. "I mean, what can go wrong?" 

A lot, apparently, and in relatively short time. He's almost impressed at the speed with which it happens, and they both watch silently as the pancake slides down the tiled backsplash. 

"Famous last words, I suppose," he says, blinking in surprise as the pancake finally folds itself into a gooey, half-cooked mess at the back of the stove. 

"Well, I tried," she sighs, handing the spatula back to him without a second glance. Their fingers brush; he manages not to sigh aloud. "It looks like I'm still not a wizard." 

"We'll...work on it," he says, unsure if he means the pancakes or something far more meaningful. "If you want." 

"Hmm. I think I, like Henry Potter, may be a lost cause," she laughs. "So I'll, um, let you handle the rest of those, because they smell delicious and I would actually like to eat them. I need to go call Nic and let him know I'll be late today, maybe catch him up on the whole Simon Reese thing, anyway. I'll just...clean up my pancake disaster after breakfast." 

"All right," he agrees, easily enough, though as he watches her go, it does occur to him to wonder who, exactly, will be left to clean up the human disaster that cooked the pancakes. 

+

After breakfast, Alex makes good on her promise to address her pancake disaster, then goes to get ready for work. He takes the opportunity to slip away to do some work himself, something he suspects will be impossible for the rest of the day, since he's agreed to take her to work, and will probably, if she cannot find her car, insist on staying at the studio and taking her home. 

Well. Not _home_. Just here. Never mind that it feels a lot more like home than Chicago ever did, now that she's here.

He opens his email, hoping for a distraction, and the first thing he sees is a lengthy reply from Emily Dumont, with whom he has been arguing for at least a week. Her reply to his last message is combative and illogical and makes more than a few ad hominem attacks, so, in short: it is exactly the distraction he needed. It's reassuring to think, as he types sentence after moderately scathing sentence, that regardless of whatever else might be happening in his life, some things remain unchanged. For as long as it takes to write a reply to this email, he can sit here and know that everything is reasonable, and rational, and logical, and sound. The dreams aren't back. They never even existed, outside of some understandable yet delusional teenage desire to save a lost friend. Coralee is still gone, which is terrible, but she also doesn't send him cryptic messages through library books, or fax machines, or anything else, and there is absolutely no well-slept and many-years-younger woman in his kitchen rattling off bad puns about brunch restaurants or ruining pancakes or generally forcing him to rethink his long-standing position on the necessity of solitude. 

He's midway through an extended email lecture on the importance of the scientific method when Alex leans around the corner of the doorframe, smiling, and he has to remember that the world is not exactly as he tries to pretend, because solitude seems less appealing by the minute. 

"Hey, I'm making extra coffee, you want some more tea while the water's hot? I promise it'll be in a cup and not on the wall," she adds.

"Yes, thank you," he says, and she smiles and ducks out again, leaving him to resume his typing until she reappears, only a few moments later.

"So-- not that I'm surprised by this or anything-- but you're basically running your own tea shop in there. What do you want?" 

He thinks for a moment about what he wants. It is a struggle to restrict the list to tea. "Lapsang souchong? If there's not any left, just choose something else, I don't keep anything I don't drink." _Except coffee for you, and a French press to make it_ , he reminds himself, unhelpfully. 

Alex, meanwhile, beams an amused smile back at him. "The tea of mystery, huh? Of course. What else would it be?" 

He doesn't intend to return the smile, but he does. "Well, I'm told that I have a reputation as an enigma to maintain." 

"Sure," she laughs, and disappears once more, returning eventually with the aforementioned tea, which she sets carefully next to him while he tries not to think about the dreadfully comfortable domesticity of the gesture, or how easily they seem to have sunk into a routine, or what that ease might indicate. Fortunately, her eyes fall briefly on his computer screen as she steps back to pick up her coffee, and the question she asks provides him a distraction from further contemplating any inadvisable pursuits of a romantic nature. 

"I'm not trying to pry, or anything, but is that an email, or are you writing another book?" 

He pushes his glasses up on his face. "Not presently, no. I am, however, currently embroiled in a protracted argument via email with Emily Dumont, whom I believe you remember from your haunted credit union." 

"How could I forget," she says. "You know, I really thought I had something there until you tore the whole thing apart." 

"Sorry to disappoint," he says. 

"No, you're not," she laughs, and when he shrugs, she shakes her head and gestures back at his screen. "So, what's Doctor Dumont up to these days? More flashlights?" 

"Hardly," he grumbles. "She's moved on to supposedly higher technology than mere flashlights, which is actually the subject of this particular email exchange. She claims to have collected alleged _evidence_ that is _proof positive_ of the paranormal, using one of those _Ovilus_ devices."

"I think I remember those," Alex says, frowning thoughtfully. "We did some research on paranormal investigators' equipment before we interviewed people for that first episode." She sips at her coffee again. "That feels like ten years ago, though, not two. So. Refresh my memory on an Ovilus, is that the one that cycles through radio frequencies?" 

"No, they call that one a _spirit box_ ," he says, disdainfully, and she smiles, but hides most of it behind her coffee cup, so its effect on him is somewhat mitigated, and he is able to continue his complaining unhampered by feelings. "The Ovilus is worse. It _claims_ to be able to convert a _spirit's manipulation of electromagnetic fields_ into _words_ , though only, of course, those words that are pre-programmed into its relatively small database. Do you have any idea how many words are in the English language, let alone _all_ languages ever spoken?" 

"No, but I'm guessing you do," she says, a fondness in her voice that he is only able to ignore as a result of his irritation with Dumont and her ilk. 

"Nearly two-hundred thousand words in the latest edition of the Oxford English Dictionary alone!" he grouses. "And that's only the English language, as though a ghost from ancient Rome would speak anything other than Latin, but this device barely has two-thousand!" 

"So, your main complaint is that if you were a ghost the device wouldn't be able to talk you?" she teases, sipping at her coffee. 

"My _complaint_ ," he says, raising an eyebrow at her and trying desperately to hang onto irritability instead of smiling like a schoolboy, "is that it's absurd that people spend money on these things, and doubly so that they claim to be able to utilize them to produce scientific evidence proving up the existence of the paranormal." 

Alex is grinning. "I see. Well, I would say that I'm sorry about the, ah, _protracted argument_ , but I'm pretty sure that's fun, for you." 

"Everyone has a hobby," he protests faintly, and she laughs. 

"Sure, sure," she says. "You...enjoy that. I'm going to finish cleaning up in here and do some work, maybe see if anyone has seen my car before we head out?" 

"Let me know when you're ready to leave," he says, and she nods and goes back to the kitchen, the vague sounds of running water and dishes being washed occasionally punctuated by what he thinks might be the sound of Alex Reagan humming while she works. It is offkey and if there is a tune to it, he doesn't recognize it, but it's certainly another thing to add to the _strangely endearing_ column. 

He sighs and rereads Dumont's email again, hoping it will fortify him sufficiently for the drive to the studio. The last thing he needs to do is propose on the I-5 during rush hour. 

+

On a good day at the right time, the drive up to the university district where the PNWS studio is located would reportedly only take half an hour. But in his experience, in Seattle it seems it's never a good day or the right time, and whether they sit on 99 northbound or I-5, they're probably going to be stuck in traffic somewhere. He explains this all to Alex as they pull out of the driveway; she is buried in a work email and expresses no preference either way. 

Something in the back of his mind suggests that 99 would be faster, because there's going to be a wreck on I-5. It isn't a vision, because that's ridiculous, and any thought he might have of a fender-bender involving a pair of Subarus, one green, one silver, one with Oregon plates, is likely just because it's a popular car on a popular road and the human brain likes patterns. That's all. 

Thoroughly confident that there's nothing larger at work in the universe than pattern recognition, he opts for I-5-- and within ten miles, finds traffic at a standstill. 

"Fantastic," he sighs. 

This still isn't foreknowledge of any kind, of course, he rationalizes. There's always a wreck on I-5. 

"Is this better or worse than Chicago traffic?" Alex asks, as they inch slowly forward. 

"It depends," he says, tapping his hands on the steering wheel and looking over at her. "Are the Blackhawks playing?" 

She laughs. "You like hockey?" 

He shakes his head. "No. But I especially don't like traffic." 

"All right. Well, I'll make you a deal," she says, grinning. "Next time, you lose your car, and I'll do the driving." 

"I don't know what I get out of that," he replies. "And we'll figure this out. We'll find your car." 

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she sighs, and then her phone rings, distracting them both. She peers at the display. "I should probably--" 

"Go ahead, I'm not going anywhere," he says, gesturing at the cars around them, and she smiles her thanks and takes the call.

"Hi, Mindy," she says. "Got something for me?" 

Mindy? While Alex listens to whoever Mindy is, he tries in vain to summon a face to put with the name, to no avail. He eventually gives up, assuming it is one of Alex's small army of interns. 

"Hang on, slow down," Alex is saying. "I-- I need to put you on speakerphone." 

He glances over, curious, to find that Alex has gone somewhat paler than usual. "Is everything all right?" 

"I-- don't think so," she says. She holds her phone flat in her palm and hits the speakerphone button. "Mindy? Can you please just repeat everything you told me for R-- for Doctor Strand?" 

He knows she probably hopes he didn't catch that, but he did. 

"Sure!" the intern, who is apparently named Mindy, exclaims. "Hi, Doctor Strand!" 

"Okay. Um, hello," he says. Fifty some odd years of talking on a phone notwithstanding, it has never been and never will be his favorite mode of communication. Writing is so much less _fraught_. 

The intern, however-- who probably grew up wrapped around a cell phone, now that he thinks of it, whereupon he immediately feels at least fifty years older-- continues on, unhindered by his halting salutations. 

"Soooo, Alex asked me to look into her sleep therapist, Doctor Monique Bernier. I did, and get this, there is _no_ Monique Bernier registered as any kind of therapist with the Washington Department of Health. There _is_ a lady by that name in the state, but she was born in 1918 and she currently lives in a nursing home in Spokane, which, I mean, makes sense. She'll be ninety-nine next week." 

"Oh," he says, blinking over at Alex. The hand that does not hold the phone rests in her lap, balled into a fist so tight that her knuckles are lighter than the rest of her skin. This is exactly what he told himself he wasn't going to do, but one look at her face and the distress written there has him reaching over immediately to take her hand, gently encouraging her fingers to relax against his own. It's a little bit of an awkward reach, and the move takes one of his hands off the wheel, but if it makes her feel even marginally better, he's not going anywhere. 

Mindy's voice cuts through the quiet. "Did I lose you guys?" 

"We're here," Alex tells her. She makes no attempt to take her hand away from his. "Keep going." 

"Anyway, I called the fake Doctor Bernier's office to set up an appointment and made up some question about needing her license number for my insurance," Mindy continues, and Richard finds that he's impressed at the young woman's initiative. "Weird thing, all of a sudden, she wasn't accepting new patients." 

"Great," Alex sighs. He squeezes her hand; she squeezes back. 

"I suppose you already went by the office," Richard says. 

"I did. Everything's gone," Mindy confirms. "The people in the suite across the hall from Bernier's said that when they came in this morning, everyone and everything from that office was gone. Even the name on the door. No warning, no forwarding address-- they just vanished." 

"Okay. Well, that's not great, but it's...good to know anyway. Thank you, Mindy," Alex says. "You did good work." 

"Absolutely!" Mindy chirps through the phone. "Let me know what else I can do!" 

"I'll talk to you when I get in," Alex tells her, and Mindy cheerfully hangs up the phone. Alex sighs again and dumps her phone in one of the empty cupholders between them. Meanwhile, the cars ahead move a few feet and stop, and Richard follows suit, one hand on the wheel and the other still holding onto Alex. 

They're quiet for a few more miles as traffic works its way around the wreck. A fender-bender, he notes. Nothing serious. Just a pair of unhappy Subaru owners standing next to their vehicles, one green, one silver, one with Oregon plates. 

"I guess someone's having a worse day than I am," she sighs, nodding at the cars. 

"At least it's only property damage," he says, and she nods. "Are you okay?" 

In his peripheral vision, he can see her closing her eyes and pushing herself back into the seat. "Not really. I mean, I'm glad that I know, but...the circle of people I trust just got a lot smaller." 

"I'm sorry," he says, and she is still holding his hand, which is possibly why he loses his grip on his sanity long enough to add, "I hope that includes me." 

She opens her eyes again and looks over, surprised, but before she can reply, her phone vibrates loudly in the cupholder, startling them both enough that they finally let go of each other. It's just as well. Traffic seems to be finally moving again, the line of brake lights ahead of them slowly disappearing. 

"It's Nic," Alex says, rapidly texting something back. "He found my car. It's at the studio. Well. In the parking garage across the street that we use, anyway." 

"You went to the studio before you came to the house?" 

She shakes her head. "If I did, I wasn't in the building. I had him check with building security, my ID card hasn't been scanned since I left on Friday." She rubs at her face. "God, what a mess." 

"Well, at least you found the car," he says. "That's something." 

"Sure," she says. "And, you know, the person I've been trusting to help me sleep might possibly be affiliated with an apocalyptic demon-summoning death cult, so that's something, too." 

He will not hold her hand again, because there's probably only so much of that one can do in a day unless one is actually involved with the other person. Instead he grips the steering wheel tighter, keeping his hands where they belong. "What made you look into her?" 

Alex is quiet for a minute, looking out the window as buildings pass in a blur of grey rain and haze. "She got a little weird in our last session." 

"How so?" 

"You want to know what we were talking about?" 

"I know these sessions are confidential, but if you could give me even a vague explanation of the context in which you felt she acted strangely, that would be helpful. You don't have to be specific, if you don't--" 

"I guess it's fine, I mean, if she's an evil cultist trying to use me to bring about the end of the world I feel like that pretty much ends any sort of confidentiality," Alex interrupts. She clears her throat. "Anyway. We were talking about-- well, you, actually." 

He came up in her sleep therapy session? He's not sure whether he should feel proud or dismayed. Does he keep her up at night? In what capacity? Surely not in the several ways he's thought of doing so, on more than one occasion, despite what used to be a very long list of reasons not to think of her in that regard at all in any way whatsoever? 

As they curve around the side of Lake Union, he somehow manages to whittle all those questions down to a simple, surprised, "Me?" 

"I--" 

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't pry." 

"No, no, it was just," she waves her hands and heaves a sigh. "It was after I fell asleep at your house, on the couch. The uh, first time. I hadn't slept that well in what felt like years. I was happy about it, I finally felt like a person again. And she was supposed to be helping me sleep, so I told her, and she got...weird." 

"How, exactly?" 

"Her whole personality changed. She was usually this bland, non-threatening person, and all of sudden she was...sharper, somehow. Just for a minute, but it was enough. She basically flat out told me not to trust you, that maybe you weren't what I thought you were." 

"Oh," is all he can think to say, because he probably isn't what she thinks he is, unless she happens to think that he is some kind of extremely reluctant clairvoyant. 

Which he isn't. At all. The wreck they passed notwithstanding. Again, there's _always_ a wreck on I-5. 

But Alex, who knows nothing of any of this and hopefully never will, only gives him a reassuring smile. "I do trust you, by the way. I hope that was clear. Regardless of the advice of my weird, possibly cult-affiliated sleep therapist." 

" _Former_ sleep therapist," he can't help but correct, and she nods in acknowledgment. 

"Yes," she agrees. "Very, very former." 

+

He fully intends to leave after he drops her off at the studio, but like so many of his plans lately, it runs aground on the shoreline of Alex Reagan's wishes. As they leave the interstate and draw nearer to the studio, she looks over at him with hope in her eyes and says, "Would you mind just coming up for a while? If there's anything else with Bernier, I'd really rather you just hear it firsthand so I don't have to repeat it." 

"Of course," he says. He doesn't even hesitate. He is no longer in charge of his own life, possibly, but she smiles and says, "Thank you," and it's fine. 

In the studio, Alex brings Nic up to speed on her sleep therapist as quickly as she can, and he seems to sense that she doesn't want to go into too much detail, because he changes the subject fairly immediately. Richard does not smile gratefully at him for sparing her that, but he does think about it. 

"Well, if you want a distraction from that, I took a look at all my copies of Nine Stories," Nic says. "And I think I figured out what that message from the Empress says." 

"Let's hear it," Alex says, settling in behind a table where Nic has arranged multiple copies of Nine Stories and some other research into the black tapes. 

"It's pretty short, but definitely to the point," Nic says. He hands Richard a copy of the translated message, complete with citations to the appropriate edition of Nine Stories. 

"Leave me," Richard reads. "Find the Advocate. Simon Reese." 

Alex frowns and looks over at him. "Do you think this is from Coralee? Is she trying to tell us she's in danger?"

"Maybe? We can edit out mentions of her," Nic offers, frowning apologetically at Richard. "We...maybe should have done that before, but better late than never." 

"No," he says, shaking his head. "First of all, if she's listening, whoever is following her already knows. And beyond that, I don't think she wrote this. I don't even think we're meant to think she did." 

"Who do you think it's from, then?" asks Alex. 

"Isn't it obvious?" Richard says, handing the note back to her. "It's _signed_." 

Alex frowns and takes it back from him, reading it again, and then again, before finally setting it back down on the table. "You think it's from Simon. You think it reads, 'Leave me. Find the Advocate. _Signed_ , Simon Reese."" 

"Oh, shit," Nic says, quietly. "Why didn't I think of that?" 

"It makes as much sense as anything else," Richard points out. "We did see him recently, after all. Did he say anything to you?" 

"The first time, he just told me to run," she says, looking away and rubbing her arms. He wants to reach out for her, pull her close, but he can't. "The second time, though-- he said it was getting harder to protect me. Specifically, he said, _we can't keep you safe_." 

"We?" 

"That's what I asked," she shrugs. "He said I already knew. And then you came in, and he was gone." 

"If it's from Simon," Nic says, staring at the several copies of Nine Stories that litter the table, "why did he send you a message from one of your wife's favorite books? Do you think-- could they be working together? Or is Simon just trying to...mess with you?" 

Richard raises an eyebrow. "Mess with me?" 

"I mean, we've suspected for a while that people are following one or both of you," Nic reasons. "Could...one of those people be Simon Reese?" 

They argue back and forth for a while, but Richard isn't really interested in the debate. He knows he's right, as surely as he knows the sun will come up tomorrow, and while he also knows they have to record more audio than they'll ever use, he still doesn't make any more than a half-hearted effort in this verbal sparring match. Finally, one of the interns-- not Mindy, another one, and he really, really should attempt to learn these young people's names at some point-- interrupts the debate and pulls Nic away to deal with a TANIS issue, leaving him alone with Alex. Much later, Richard will pinpoint this as the moment in which he should have invented an excuse to leave, if he really wanted life to carry on as it had been for the past few decades. _In medias res_ , however, it's hard to see these things clearly. Even if one sees wrecks on I-5. 

"Do you really disagree with my interpretation of this message?" he asks, settling in across from her at the table. "I did know her, a little bit, you know." 

Alex reaches out and grips his hand, just briefly. "I don't disagree with you," she says. "But I also don't think we can totally rule out that it's from her. I mean, with the book, and where we found the code, it just seems--" 

"No," he says flatly. "It isn't from her." 

"But how are you so sure?" 

"He signed the note, Alex," he says, tapping Simon's name on the translation. "And if Coralee wanted to send me another book cipher, she has plenty of other ways to do it--" 

"Wait a minute," Alex says, interrupting, her eyes and tone suspicious, now, replacing the gentleness that had been there only moments before. " _Another_ book cipher?" 

He blinks. He clears his throat. He's known for some time that they would eventually have to discuss all of this, but he wasn't prepared for it to happen today, and certainly not because he got entirely too comfortable with her. The line about loose lips and sinking ships comes to mind. He never thought it'd be his own. 

"I-- yes," he sighs. "Another one." 

"Why didn't you--" she begins, but then stops herself short of asking a question. A moment later, she tries again, but no matter how many times she starts, she can't seem to finish a sentence. He isn't sure he's ever seen her so flustered. In the end, all she can manage is a frustrated " _Why_?" 

"I can explain," he offers.

"Can you?" Alex demands, throwing up her hands. "Please, then, explain: how many of these ciphers has she sent you so far?" 

"Only three," he says, and he is certain there will be more questions, but instead she is quiet, and for an uncomfortable length of time. He is hyper-aware of the recorder that sits on the table in front of them, as she surely must be also, but she never makes a move to reach for it. Whatever reply she might make to him now, apparently it will be for him alone. The thought is simultaneously heartwarming and heartbreaking, considering that barely an hour ago, she told him that she trusted him, and he's about to give her several reasons not to. 

"When?" she asks finally. She does not look at him. 

"After we got back from the Empress." 

"Is that-- what else aren't you telling me? Has it just been the ciphers?"

"No," he admits, surprising no one more than himself with this confession. It is not the confession he was afraid of making to her today, but then, perhaps this one had to come first. He's so tired of love mixed with secrets. If this works, it works honestly, or not at all-- provided she can forgive him his many sins of omission. 

"Explain," she says, covering her face with her hands. "Please." 

He does. He tells her about twenty years of cryptic clues: faxes from nowhere, phone numbers on coffee cups, post-it notes in conference materials. Signs and wonders everywhere, but all questions, no answers. 

"That's why you called me back, isn't it," she says, when he finishes. It is not a question. It's barely even an accusation, she's just stating facts in a voice totally devoid of emotion, and there have been a lot of things in recent memory that have shaken him, but this might be the top of the list. "Two years ago. You didn't call me to apologize, after the Torres case. You called me because you got another message, and you thought you could find her, if you did the show. That's why you agreed to do this at all." 

He doesn't say anything. What can he say? It's true. They had finished the Torres case, or as close to it as they could, and Alex Reagan, owner of a voice he had only ever heard inside his own mind, had left him behind without ever asking him those two horrible questions about who he really is, who he really wants to be. It felt like a victory, like he had passed some kind of cosmic test. He thought it meant he could carry on pretending that the visions were never real, that none of it was ever real, and everyone would be safe, even him. 

And everything had been fine, until he returned to Chicago and found a note on his desk that said, "That show is a wheelbarrow, and Richard: it looks like rain." 

In all her random communications over the years, it was the most direct Coralee had ever been with him. What else was he supposed to do except stomp down on all his fears, pick up the phone, and make his excuses to Alex? It was easy enough to convince her that all he wanted was a platform with which to raise the level of debate around paranormal activity. He did, in fact, want that, or he'd convinced himself that he did. That it wasn't his primary motivation hardly seemed relevant. 

It hadn't felt like manipulation at the time, but he doubts Alex will see it that way now. 

When he doesn't reply, Alex presses on, that same hollow, emotionless note in her voice. "I'm guessing she fed you a lot of the information we've been using. The Watchers. The Horn of Tiamat. The mantle. None of that was from you, was it?" 

"It was from me," he protests. "Most of it, at any rate. I haven't just been sitting idly by for twenty years, I've done my own research." 

"Fine," she sighs. "Let's say I believe you. You're sure they're really from her? The letters. The messages. All of it." 

"Yes." 

"Okay," she says, shaking her head. "Sure. Why not. Okay." 

There is another long, anxious silence, while Alex Reagan stares into an abyss that has been talking back to her for far too long. Richard, for his part, can only stare at her. 

He should tell her that he's sorry. He should tell her a lot of things, because this is not the only thing he's kept from her, or from himself. He should tell her that the past is absolutely what brought him here, but that it hasn't been what's kept him, unless he counts a very recent past, a place of warmth and easy companionship, of shared meals and mutual comfort. But from the look on Alex's face-- stricken? betrayed? -- he doesn't think he'll be revisiting that place anytime soon. 

"Alex?" he says, because one of them has to say something.

"How long," she says, folding her arms across her chest, her hands well out of his reach, "were you going to let me think you cared about anything except your own agenda?" 

He knows it isn't possible, and if questioned later he would deny it vehemently, but at the moment he would swear he can actually feel, as if they were his own, the hurt and disappointment and regret and sadness that radiates out from her, a swirling maelstrom of broken trust. How did he ever delude himself into thinking that she wouldn't see this as a betrayal? Oh, that she'd be upset, he had no doubt, but she looks a little like he feels anytime he contemplates the possibility that the things that he dreams are real, like she has lost a critical support for the foundation of her world and without it she will soon crumble. 

Perhaps, he thinks, he is as much a singularity for her as she is for him, and they are destined to collapse in on each other like dying stars. 

"That isn't all I care about," he insists, but she only shakes her head and gets to her feet. 

Too late, he realizes his fatal error: he had forgotten what it felt like to matter to anybody this much. He's upended her world in the way that has only been possible because of this thing between them, a thing that refuses to go unacknowledged. It doesn't matter if either of them ever say a word about it. It's still here. Unless it's gone. 

"The letters are just nonsense," he says, while she gathers her things. He forges ahead with a well-rehearsed response to protestations she hasn't even made, as though all his one-sided arguing can keep her here. "The letters-- they discuss the Tiamat cult, the mantle of the dragon, notes about my father, papers from my father. All of it-- most of it-- has been nothing short of ridiculous, and none of it, by the way, was any of your business, but if anything seemed relevant, I've already told you about it. It wasn't as though you needed to know where I was getting the information, and either way you got the audio you needed, so regardless of my initial motivations I think I've held up my part of our little bargain, and I don't really think you have a right to be upset with me at all-- where are you going?" 

Her hand is on the door, but she does at least turn back to answer. 

"Sorry, it seemed like you didn't really need me here to have this argument." _It sounds like you didn't really need me at all_ , she doesn't say, but he thinks he hears it anyway. 

"That isn't true," he says. _I do need you. I can't say it. I'm sorry._

"I don't really want to talk to you about truth, right now, I think," she says, rubbing her face with one hand, the other pushing open the door. "I'm going for a walk. Please don't follow me. I need to...process some things. If Nic gets back before I do, tell him-- actually, you know what, don't worry about it. I'll just text him and tell him myself." 

And then the door swings open and she's gone, leaving him with a stack of his wife's favorite books and a hollow, empty ache in his chest. Solitude may not be a necessity, but it seems that it isn't done with him just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes, allusions, &c. 
> 
> 1) _the secret science of pancakes_ : this is a mostly correct explanation! To be more correct you'd say _double acting baking powder_ reacts to heat and acid, and you could probably get even more technical than that, but hey, Richard's got degrees in not-chemistry, okay. (I also do not have a degree in chemistry, as is probably evident; I owe any knowledge of cooking wizardry to my wife. I just make the food, I don't have _any_ idea how it works.)
> 
> 2) Marry someone who doesn't even hesitate to reply "Henry Potter" when you turn to them and say, "What might a person who didn't know much about recent pop culture but still wanted to impress someone with their knowledge call Harry Potter that is so close, yet so far, from his actual name?" Good old Hank Potter. Long may he live. 
> 
> 3) Campbell's hero's journey: Richard's referring to Joseph Campbell's famous "The Hero with a Thousand Faces," published in 1949, in which he outlines a narrative pattern, common to hero stories from around the world, where the hero gets some sweet supernatural powers, meets a wise old mentor or two, saves the day, and gets some cool shit to share with all mankind.
> 
> 4) _The show's a wheelbarrow, and Richard: it looks like rain._ Reference to "the red wheelbarrow," by William Carlos Wlliams; Coralee's favorite poet and the poem she apparently put in her vows. 
> 
> \-- 
> 
> Next time, on The Black Tapes: fanfic edition: Alex takes a walk and Richard makes some apologies. Stay with us!


	7. 4A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex goes for a walk. Richard makes some apologies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. As Ian Malcolm famously noted, life finds a way...to interfere with my updating plans on this story. But trust and believe, this thing is still getting finished this year, if it's the last thing I do. (It won't be. There are at least 9 stories in this universe. My life; my choices.) As previously noted-- this will probably get a lot less remixy going forward, just to make sure this gets posted in 2018. THANK YOU for continuing to read this story! 
> 
> 2\. There are some sorta deep cuts to season one plot stuff in this chapter, because I was never super satisfied with how the show resolved (read: just straight up did not resolve at all in any way) the fact that Richard had an assistant investigating the Unsound who up and died within a year of hearing it??? Hit by a bus, my actual ass-- which is part of the reason I started writing this beast to begin with. Travis Collinwood deserves answers!!! WE ALL DESERVE ANSWERS.

"Wait a minute: _another_ book cipher?" 

Alex is ashamed to admit it to herself, since she is a person whose career is so often focused on finding and telling truths, but in the space of the seconds that pass between her question and Richard's answer, she desperately wants him to say that he simply misspoke-- even if that is a lie. 

For once in this whole miserable partnership, though, Richard Strand has apparently decided to tell her the truth. She listens to him promise that he can _explain_ , thinking all the while that the truth doesn't set anybody free. She certainly doesn't feel free. She feels betrayed. Betrayed, and manipulated, and foolish. Maybe that's the worst of it. He's made a fool out of her for coming up on two years now, because with all her training and all her years doing this job, she still couldn't manage to see past a pair of cool blue eyes and a rich baritone that seems to vibrate at the same frequency as her heart.

"Please," she says. " _Explain_." 

Maybe he tries. Maybe he doesn't. She doesn't really know, because she no longer trusts herself to read him. 

He protests, and definitely too much. He tells her that there's nothing in any of the messages that matters, but that isn't the point. It's the messages that matter, not what they say. It's that he's been pulling the strings of this narrative all along, and stringing her along in the process. But she doesn't have to be a part of it forever. There are other stories. Other subjects. Better people. 

The trouble is, she doesn't want any of them. She wants this one.

"How long were you going to let me think you cared about anything other than your own agenda?" she asks, hating the heartbreak in her voice, how pathetic it sounds to her, how it must sound to him. 

"That isn't all I care about," he says, but she can't believe that. Can she? 

He's still talking, but it's all just noise in her ears. She can't pick out the words. This revelation has taken her ability to understand language, her solid ground, her sense of up and down and right and wrong. His voice used to bring her comfort, but there is none here for her now. 

She leaves. If she doesn't move, walk off some of the kinetic, frantic energy building in the pit of her stomach, she thinks she might just combust. She needs fresh air, rain, anything but the stifling tension of this little room. 

"Please don't follow me," she tells him, her own voice strange in her ears, like she's hearing herself from far away. 

He does at least do her the small courtesy of doing as she asks. He does not follow her out the door to insist, again, for the millionth time, that she is wrong and he is right and there's nothing at all connecting years of unsolved mysteries with the biggest unsolved mystery he has. Of course he's right. He's _Richard Strand_ , he's never been wrong. 

_What the hell am I even doing here, listeners?_

But her internal audience has no answers for her, and the walk down this studio hallway has never felt so long. A walk she used to make in a few minutes seems to stretch on for an hour, and she decides, as she reaches the elevators, that maybe she understands Coralee better in this moment than she ever thought she would. 

She's thought about it a lot, since they found that article about Coralee's disappearance, since the day she asked Richard about it and watched a very deep and very real sadness flicker across his face. She's thought about what would make a person walk away like that, how angry you would have to be to get out of a car and just...go. As ten thousand questions swirl around in her thoughts, each one enough on its own to totally overwhelm her, she thinks, possibly, she knows a piece of that frustration. Is this hallway her highway? If she walks to the end of it, if she steps into the elevator, will she disappear, too? 

But Alex doesn't want to disappear, not really. Not unless it is into the past, into the warm circle of someone's arms, the comforting rise and fall of someone else's breath lulling her to sleep, keeping her nightmares at bay. 

The elevator goes straight down to the lobby and when the doors open she finds a perfectly normal world, which seems strange after a morning of so many abnormal revelations. Bernier. Richard's letters. Her own foolish hope that she mattered at all, beyond a means by which he could put his life back together and take on the field of parapsychology in the process. She sighs and buttons her coat, squaring her shoulders like a fighter, and walks across the ground floor to the world that waits outside. 

How many messages does he have? How many lies has he told? And why to her, why on this show? Why not choose, instead, a fucking private investigator? Why waste two years of _her_ life and _her_ time and a considerable part of her heart, chasing the ghosts of mistakes that weren't even hers? 

The questions don't let up as Alex shuffles along the sidewalk outside, not bothering to slow her steps as she passes by the coffee shop that represents the usual PNWS employee haunt. She doesn't want to see anyone she knows right now. More than that, she doesn't want to sit at the same table where she always sits with Richard, or Strand, or Doctor Strand, or whoever the fuck he is, to the world, to her. Would it even bother him if she went back to calling him by his last name? 

_That isn't all I care about_ , he said, but how much _can_ he care, really? 

_Listeners, a question for you: can you break up with someone if you're not in any kind of relationship? Even if you hold hands a lot lately and have very recently slept in the same bed?_

She walks a block further to the second-closest coffee place, coat tucked tightly around herself, cursing inwardly the whole way. It's a welcome change from the emotional vacillation of the last fifteen minutes, honestly; she hadn't been sure if she felt mostly angry, or mostly regretful, or hurt, or sad, or worse, heartbroken, but for the moment at least she seems to have settled on anger, and she's more than happy to lean all the way in. 

"Goddammit," she mutters, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk. It skitters off into the street and down into a gutter, destined for the sewer. She sympathizes: lately, it seems that being buffeted around and dumped into shitty situations by people and things beyond her control is her speciality. She's thinking of adding it to her résumé at this point.

The thought of her job and her show and her professional reputation summons up another swell of anger, at herself, at Bernier, at _Richard_. If she hadn't gotten some sleep last night she can only imagine that she'd be standing here on this street corner, waiting for the light to change, and shouting to the heavens or anyone who'd listen that Richard fucking Strand can go jump in the fucking Sound before he tries to talk to her again. 

Fuck Richard, honestly, she thinks, as the light changes and she stomps across the street. Fuck that guy, and not in the fun and unprofessional ways she has sometimes imagined, or maybe more than sometimes. Fuck him for lying in the first place, and for _continuing to lie_ long after he should have taken literally any opportunity to explain. Fuck him for his pancakes and his bourbon and his arm around her while they watch _The X-Files_. Fuck him for staying when she'd asked, last night, for being a friend, for just _existing_ with her in this weird liminal space of a relationship they've been having since the first time he made her breakfast. And fuck her insatiable curiosity most of all, for getting her into this mess in the first fucking place. 

_Don't get too close your subjects_ , she had heard, over and over again, in college. It had been something of a joke, how often someone said it. Now she wishes they'd said it even more, or possibly that she'd had it tattooed on her body, someplace she could see it every day and remember that subjects lie, and it's her job to tell the truth.

_A predilection for lying is the common thread that ties humanity together,_ or so her mentor in college used to say. Leslie had been a reporter since before Woodward and Bernstein were household names, so she had, as she so often put it, _seen some shit_ , and therefore wouldn't put up with any. By the time Alex met her she was the world's grumpiest adjunct, with one foot in the classroom and the other wedged firmly between full retirement and the grave. A true remnant of the 1960s, she still smoked like a chimney and had once spent two years in prison for refusing to give up a source, so as a result she was both loved and feared by everyone in the journalism department. Freshmen were widely encouraged to keep their heads down if they happened to take her intro course, which of course Alex had. She had not, however, kept quiet. 

_"From the highest and mightiest politician on down, everybody's keeping secrets. The settings may look different but our motivations are usually the same: we lie for love, or we lie for money, but rarely both. It's your job as a journalist to figure out which one, so you can ask the right questions."_

_"Okay. And which one do you lie for, Professor?"_

The question sent a shockwave through a classroom of nervous freshmen and had earned a younger, greener Alex Reagan the right to visit Leslie's office whenever she had something on her mind. It had also earned her a glass of scotch and a cigarette, both of which an eighteen-year old Alex had politely had turned down. At the moment, she thinks she would definitely accept the offer. Well. At least the scotch. 

What would Leslie even say about all of this? Alex can picture her now, e-cigarette in one hand, her slight concession to the recent campus ban on smoking, sitting in her office underneath a poster someone had made for her a poster with the guy from House that said _Everybody lies_ , which she'd hung proudly above her computer. There was a rumor around the department that she'd made an addendum to her will asking to be cremated with it, but that was probably just a rumor. Probably. 

_You know what, listeners, I'm not thinking about my college mentor right now, because she'd just be disappointed in me, and I'm disappointed enough in myself for both of us. And I'm definitely not thinking about House, because I'm all stocked up on blue-eyed, grumpy, unfortunately attractive men who are too smart for their own good. And mine._

Besides, it's not like she has to dwell too much on love versus money when it comes to her current subject. She knows exactly which one of the two Richard's lying for. 

Oh, she thinks, as a dull ache blooms in her chest. There it is. The heartbreak. Right on schedule. 

If he had just been honest from the beginning, they'd already be done with this. They'd be done, and she would have gone on with her life, never wasting a second thought on what, exactly, Richard Strand means when he holds her hand or makes her breakfast or looks at her like she's the thing that he got out of bed for. 

_That isn't all I care about._

He sounded genuine, when he'd said that. He usually does, with her, these days. It's been a nice change from all the blustery phone calls of their early days, when all he did was claim she was misrepresenting him and his sacred strict rationalist thinking for the sake of some sensationalist nonsense intended purely for entertainment. His words, not hers, despite the fact that it was her show. Maybe there have been too many of his words and not enough of hers. Or maybe he just wanted to sound cold and rational and _absolutely fine, thank you very much_ , in case Coralee was listening to the show. That would make sense, she thinks. No one wants their most significant ex to think they're falling apart, right? 

_What would **you** say, listeners? If you finally had a chance to talk to someone you thought you'd never see again? And how would you say it? Would you lay it all out on the line and hope they didn't run again, or would you shove your feelings aside and pretend it didn't matter? _

She knows what she'd choose. And that, she decides, as she nears her destination, is the fundamental difference between Alex Reagan and Richard Strand. She runs at what she wants and she deals with the consequences. He tells himself he doesn't want it and retreats into a fallout shelter.

_It's really exhausting, listeners. Especially when you think you might be what he wants._

+

The second-best coffee shop near the studio is packed with college students and university types, which makes sense-- it's only a block from campus. What doesn't make sense is that it must be edging up on final exam time, yet everywhere she looks, everyone looks so _happy_. Two young men cuddling on a sofa in a corner, a trio of people sitting around a table, holding hands and bumping one another's shoulders, a woman in the corner face-timing with someone she can't stop saying _I love you_ to-- and it's just too much, really. She almost turns right around and leaves, but the guy behind the counter has already seen her and smiled and shouted a friendly hello, so she steps up to the counter and asks for a large coffee, then turns with her cup to confront the wall of coffee dispensers. She doesn't spend too much time reading them. The roast doesn't matter. Whatever's most bitter. Like her mood. 

She's not usually this dramatic, she reassures herself, as she fills her cup with something that promises to be a midnight dark roast. But she's also not usually reeling from the discovery of a two-year misinformation campaign which she has unknowingly perpetrated on her audience.

_Sorry about that, by the way. If it makes you feel any better, listeners, I know exactly how you feel._

Does she? It was her job to know better, and she didn't. Even Nic had his misgivings from the start, she remembers, but she'd just brushed them aside. It was the week that Strand had called to apologize, saying he was coming to Seattle and had a case for her. The Unsound. She shivers even underneath her several layers as she settles into the only open seat she can find, hands curled around her coffee cup to ward away the cold chill of fear. 

She and Nic had talked it over, discussing what could have caused Strand's sudden change of heart about the black tapes. And then, tired of arguing with her coworker and friend, she'd taken her questions directly to the source-- and had let him ramble on for far too long about truth and the importance of it, about weird beliefs that are essentially holding us back as a species. The recording of Strand explaining his reasons for doing the show was, as she recalls, just minutes upon minutes of lofty, high-minded ideals from a lofty, high-minded ivory tower. She should have suspected, at least, that all that academic bluster was hiding something, but the truth was, she liked hearing him talk a lot more than she'd wanted to admit to herself at the time. She still does. She just doesn't want to be lied to, which seems reasonable. 

Whatever the destination she envisioned for this show, they are far from it now. She remembers telling Richard, once upon what feels like a very long time ago, that she'd rather be Terry Gross than Scooby Doo. And that's still true: the mysteries don't hold half as much of her interest as the man at the heart of it all, which is the real, actual root of her problem, isn't it? It's not the potential cult affiliations of her sleep therapist, or the nightmarish horrors haunting her apartment, or escaped convicts showing up in her closet. Her real, terrible, very bad, no-good problem is that somehow, in the course of this investigation, she has fallen in love with Richard Strand, and she has no idea what the hell she's going to do about it. 

She buries her face in her hands and groans, startling the couple at the table next to her. 

"Sorry," she says, smiling apologetically at them. 

How did this _happen_? 

_Maybe the next episode needs to be a retrospective, listeners. A look back on Alex Reagan's slow descent into...whatever this is._

Was it a slow descent, though? She pulls up the first episode on her phone and plugs in some headphones, skipping ahead to the portion where she had, for the first time, described the future source of today's emotional turmoil. 

_Doctor Richard Strand is a tall man, good looking, confident, with a perpetual wry smile and cool blue eyes that betray a sharp intelligence._

Okay, well. Maybe she didn't need to describe him as good looking, right from the start. 

But he was, and is, and he'd been so much _nicer_ than she'd thought he'd be, considering everything she'd heard about him from other people. They'd done so many interviews with paranormal investigators by that point, and he'd come up in nearly all of them, but no one had a kind word to say about Strand. People had referred to him, variously, as _an inveterate jackass_ , _a cold-hearted skeptic who is constitutionally incapable of experiencing human emotion_ , and _the single worst thing to happen to the field of parapsychology since the Fox sisters confessed they were faking it_. One of the clips, which she hadn't ever worked into the show, was particularly pointed: _Dick's a nickname for Richard, right? Yeah, well, in his case, it's **very** appropriate. Good fucking luck if you talk to that guy._

After all of that, she'd had no idea what to expect when she finally walked into his office. A pompous academic, maybe, or a slippery, too-charming womanizer. She had done her homework; she had not been unaware of the kind of men who so often frequent skeptics' circles. But none of that was the reality she had walked into, that day in Chicago. Strand was just...polite. Professional. Pompous, sure, but somehow earnestly so. Dedicated to his work. Dedicated, she thought, to the pursuit of _truth_ \-- at least as long as it wasn't in any way supernatural.

As irritating as he can be, she's never really thought any of the complaints they'd heard about him made up the whole tale, but maybe that's just her journalist's training, wanting to tell the truth, and not at all slant. The way she sees it, there's Richard Strand, Ph.D. squared, a professional skeptic who verbally skewers parapsychologists for fun and profit, and then there's Richard, the man, who shares with her the secret knowledge of pancakes and who endearingly thinks the protagonist of a very recent literary juggernaut is named Henry Potter. Despite herself, she does smile at the memory of that. She greatly prefers spending time with Richard, but _Doctor Strand_ has never really bothered her as much as he bothers some people. Some people just have very...pronounced work personas, that's all. 

But what else hasn't he told her? What lies beneath that serious professional facade? It could be anything. Whether or not she's prepared to deal with it is an entirely different question. 

She stares into her bitter coffee until it grows very cold, and when answers do not present themselves, she does what anyone would do in this situation: she calls for help. 

The phone picks up on the first ring. 

"Hello, this is Ex Libris, we aren't Powell's and we don't care," says a woman's chipper voice on the other end of the line, and despite the day she's had, Alex finds herself smiling. 

"We may need a new marketing strategy, Mom." 

"Nonsense, I knew it was you." 

"Right. Mother's intuition, huh?" 

"Or, as I like to call it: caller ID, Alexandra." 

In some ways, Alex thinks, Richard Strand and Lyda Reagan would enjoy one another's company very much. 

There's a commotion on the other end of the line, and Alex frowns as she tries to make out what's happening. 

"Who is that?" she asks. "It sounds like there's a fight going on, is everything okay?" 

"Oh, that's just your father," Lyda explains. "He's watching C-SPAN again while he shelves books. You know how much he likes to yell at Congress about delusions of grandeur and whatever other pop psychology he picked up when he was sorting the self-help section instead of working on our taxes. Maurice," she calls. "I love you dearly, but you're not going to undo two-hundred-plus years of wrongheadedness by yelling at people who can't hear you. I'm trying to talk to your daughter, who never calls anymore, keep it down, please." 

"Sorry about that," Alex says. "Both the C-SPAN, and the not-calling." 

"We know you're busy with your show," Lyda says, and Alex can imagine the exact way her mother is sitting, perched on the stool behind the counter, grey hair pulled back into a loose bun, too-long earrings brushing her wiry shoulders. "Now. Why did you call your old mom, hmm? Not just to chat, I think." 

Alex can feel her face warming. Lyda can joke all she wants about caller ID, but Alex knows the mother's intuition thing isn't too far from the truth. "Don't read too much into this, but I need some advice," she says. 

"Oho," says her mother. "This wouldn't happen to be about a man, now, would it?" 

"What did I just say, about reading too much into things?" Alex asks, but then she sighs and adds, "It might be. But-- it's not what you think." 

Her own words unintentionally call up the memory of that strange phone message, and for a moment she loses herself to her thoughts. _He's not what you think._ Well, that's true enough. Honest? Occasionally. Trustworthy? Hardly. The only reason she's slept recently? Definitely. 

Her mother's voice cuts in. "Alexandra? Hello? Did I lose you?" 

"I'm here," she says, trying to string together the words to explain. "Sorry. I just-- I have this...source. For a story I've been working on. We've been working together for not quite two years and we're...close, I guess. And this morning he-- " 

"I'm going to stop you right there and remind you that although I am seventy-five years old, I do know how to use the internet, young lady, and I have listened to your show," Lyda says. "There's no need to be so vague." 

Alex struggles to hold onto the phone. She had told her parents, back when things started to get a little weird with the podcast, that maybe this wasn't the sort of thing they'd enjoy, so she thought they'd stopped tuning in long ago, and she'd been grateful for it-- especially after she started chronicling her adventures in insomnia. "You...you listened?" 

"Of course," says her mother. "Well. To some of it, anyway. I've never been very fond of horror. Ghost stories are all well and good, but upside-down faces and portals to hell dimensions are a little far afield from what I usually like in my entertainment." 

"Right," Alex replies, in the absence of anything else to say. 

"You sound well-rested, at least, for the moment. You're sleeping all right? I don't like to be a bother, but I do worry. How is that sleep therapist working out?"

"Not so great," Alex admits, and mentally gives herself an award for delivering the understatement of the year. "I'm...exploring other options. Which is sort of related to the thing I called you about." 

"I see," says her mother, and despite the fact that many miles and state lines are separating them, Alex knows that her mother does, in fact, see. Lyda hums thoughtfully into the phone. "This wouldn't happen to be about the young man with the nice voice, would it? He's a little pretentious sometimes, but I like him well enough."

Dimly, Alex wonders how Richard would react if he knew her mother had referred to him a _young man_ , let alone, _the young man with the nice voice_. She almost wishes she had recorded this after all, just to see the look on his face when he heard it.

"Um," Alex manages to say, "yes. I mean, yes, that's my subject." 

"Your _subject_. Listen to you, you sound so clinical," her mother says, laughing softly. 

"Well, that's what he _is_ \--" 

"Yes, I know. And if you need to hide your feelings behind some kind of bulwark made of professional jargon, I suppose I am powerless to stop you," her mother continues. "I'm just letting you know that you don't have to, with me, if you don't want to." 

"Thanks," Alex says, but before her mother can ask her any more questions, there's a shuffling noise, and her father's voice, and Alex can't help but grin at the tug of war she knows is currently happening over the phone. 

"Maurice, not now, I'm trying to talk to our daughter, and it's important," Lyda is saying. "Oh, good grief. Hold on." 

There's a rustling sound as the phone is passed around. 

"Yes, hello, is this Ghostbusters?" asks her father. "I'm being haunted by the ghosts of other people's bad voting decisions, do you help with that?" 

"Usually we say you should turn off the television," Alex says, smiling. "Hi, dad." 

"Hi yourself, stranger," he says, and they talk, and they laugh, and she still doesn't have any answers but she can feel her mood lifting. She is grateful for the distraction, for the sheer mundane normalcy of her sweet old parents who love her and know her and want her to be safe and happy. 

_Listeners: don't ever let anyone tell you that you're too old to call home. Sometimes, you just want to talk to your family, and that's okay._

Eventually, her mother manages to pry the phone away from her father, and she tries her best to explain her current situation, or at least hit the highlights. She leaves out the spookier parts, like the literal zombie in her apartment, or Simon Reese, or the markings on her walls, not just because they would no doubt unnerve and frighten her parents, but also because they're just window dressing on the real problem, something her mother seems to understand without her saying it.

"Alexandra, my darling, light of my life," says her mother, when Alex finally stops to take a breath, "I won't tell you what to do, but to me, the man sounds like he's afraid." 

"Of what?" She frowns. "Of _me_?" 

"No idea," her mother says breezily, and Alex is suddenly reminded of the time in middle school when she had brought home a math problem she couldn't manage to solve. Her father had been no help, but her mother had once studied to be an engineer, so she seemed more than qualified to assist. But all Lyda would say, time after frustrating time, was, "Keep working on it," or, "Do you think that's it?" Finally she had given up, used her best judgment, and turned the assignment in, resigned to having gotten everything wrong. To her surprise, when she got it back, she'd gotten every answer correct, and had marched home with the paper in hand to demand some sort of recompense from her mother. 

"You knew the whole time I had it right," Alex had said, irritated and tired and determined never to do math again. "Why didn't you just tell me?" 

"Because you are clever and perfectly capable of solving your own problems," her mother had replied. "And _I_ knew you'd figure it out on your own, but _you_ didn't know you would. You needed to learn that you could do it on your own. A little self-assurance will go farther for you than factoring trinomials, I suspect." 

Alex hadn't appreciated the lesson much at the time, but years later, when she went to conduct her first real interview, she had thought more fondly of the value in knowing that she was enough, that she could take the world on if she wanted and be okay.

Still, a good lesson for addressing elementary school math problems is maybe a bad lesson for dealing with potential demons, and back in the present, Alex just shakes her head. "Okay," she sighs. "I get it. And I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I still have no idea what I'm doing, here. With my...subject. Friend. Colleague. Whatever." 

"You'll figure it out," Lyda says. "You may not know that, but I do." 

"If you say so," Alex says.

"I do, because I also know that I raised a very stubborn child, though I can't imagine where you might have gotten that." 

In the background, Alex can hear that her father's argument with the television has resumed, and in spite of everything, she has to smile. "No idea," she says, parroting her mother's words back to her. "And thanks, Mom." 

+

"Hey, there you are," Nic says, when she finally makes it back to the studio. 

"Coffee took a little longer than I thought," she says, shrugging out of her coat.

"Well, it's finals time, I guess," Nic says, and she nods. "Oh, do you know where Strand went? He said he'd be back in a bit but I haven't seen him-- I wanted to ask him a couple of things about the Nine Stories message." 

"No clue," she says, more snap in her tone than she intends. "I'm not his keeper." 

"Right," Nic says, and he gives her a strange look, but he doesn't ask questions. 

She sighs. "Sorry. The whole Bernier thing is just really messing with me, you know?" she says, summoning up what she hopes is an apologetic frown. It's not that what she's saying to Nic is untrue-- she is pretty rattled about her former sleep therapist-- but there's also definitely a larger truth here that she's not sharing, and though she doesn't know why she's keeping Richard's secrets, it seems important to try. Fortunately, Nic doesn't press the issue.

"Yeah, that's-- listen, if you need to take the rest of the day or something, no one around here is going to blame you for that," Nic says. "That's a pretty scary thing, to trust someone to help you sleep and then-- yeah. I can't imagine how you feel." 

"Pretty terrible, to be honest. I appreciate the offer, I do, but I just...I need to work," she says, even though she would like little more than to take the day for herself, walk around the city aimlessly, take the ferry to Bainbridge for no reason, or get in her newly found car and just _drive_ , music up loud enough to drown out all of her doubts. But Richard owes her an explanation, and she's here until she gets it, so she opens her laptop and paints on her best professional front. "Really, I'm okay." 

"Okay," Nic says, clearly skeptical. "If you say so." 

"I do," she insists. "If I don't get back to work, I'm never going to figure out who Bernier really is, or what she wanted with me, and I can't just let that go." 

Nic nods slowly. "Yeah. I'd ask M.K. to dig her up, but the last time I brought up working on the Black Tapes, she said, and I quote, 'There's not enough bitcoin in the world to get me to fuck with demons,' so, I'm pretty sure she's out." 

"Smart woman," Alex chuckles, and turns her attention to her inbox.

Her email is full of messages, possible leads, listener comments, even a note from an old friend who says she might have something Alex would consider interesting, and none of it is going to get read if she doesn't get with the program, so she tries as best she can to shove both Bernier and Richard's confession out of her mind. With Bernier, it works; with Richard, it's...considerably less effective. He has become such a fixture in her life, both personally and professionally, that it is impossible to rid herself entirely of thoughts of him: he's in her inbox, with questions from listeners who want to know what it's really like, working with the scourge of the paranormal investigators' community. He's in the audio she has to cut in for the next few episodes. He's in her thoughts as she calls her friend with the lead on strange box of materials from some weird former hospital, because of course her friend has to mention that, yes, she did find these while she was a PA on _that show_ with _those fictional FBI agents_ , but no, none of these papers were props, and it's a nice conversation, it's nice to talk to someone who isn't necessarily involved in this mystery, but one sly reference to the _X-Files_ and still she can't help but drift back into the comforting warmth of yesterday. 

This isn't a breakup by any means, but it's really starting to feel more and more like one. 

_You know, listeners, if you're going to feel like you've been dumped, you should at least have gotten to the part of the relationship where it really was one. Otherwise all of this is just unfair._

Eventually, she hears the door open, but she doesn't have to look up to know that he's back. The air changes. She would swear that it does. It's denser, as though it has somehow grown heavier with the weight of everything built up between them, the way storm clouds gather before a downpour, with too much water stored up to do anything except demand to fall. 

"Oh, there you are," Nic says, somehow oblivious to the oncoming storm. "Listen, I've been thinking about that message, and-- I know we talked about this earlier, but the whole reason you guys went up to the hotel in the first place was because of that weird phone message we got, which at the time you did think was from--" 

"I appreciate that you're putting so much thought into this," Richard interrupts, the sound of his voice arcing like lightning across the landscape of her thoughts. "But I am very certain that that Nine Stories message was not from Coralee. The phone message, yes, but whatever she left, Simon Reese got there first. He must have changed it." 

Nic frowns, but nods. "Well, if you're sure--"

"He's sure," Alex interrupts, a thunderclap that she hopes he hears. She doesn't look up. "Did you need something? We're working." 

Beside her, Nic startles at the tone of her voice. "Uh, Alex, what...?" 

"No, it's fine. I apologize for interrupting," Richard says. 

"Oh, I don't need an apology for _that_ ," she replies, and she does finally look up at him, then. She intends only to glare at him, very briefly, and return to pretending that the email she's been writing is extremely important. But she _looks_ at him, _really_ looks, and he looks back, and they just...stare, for a while, lost in a conversation that only the two of them can hear. She is unfortunately reminded of the first morning, the first breakfast, the first time this thing between them flared to life at a place and time where they might actually have the space to do something about it. 

But it hadn't then, and it seems less likely now. Her mother's words come back to her now, and she studies his face more carefully. _Is_ he afraid? And if so, of what? She asked him that once, long ago, a half-serious question that had netted a less than half-serious answer. Food poisoning, he had joked, and they both laughed and moved on. What would he have answered if he'd trusted her, then? What would he say now? 

She tries to think about it as though it were just audio for the podcast, with fewer of her feelings in the way. _Who is Richard Strand, really, listeners?_ Whatever else he might be, he is a man who has had a lot of loss in his life. A wife. A daughter. A sister, really. Parents. Who knows who else. It would make sense, she supposes, trying to be charitable, if a life lived entirely alone seemed preferable to more of that. 

It doesn't mean he gets to lie about everything all the time, obviously. She's still upset. He can't just walk in here and look sad about the many sad things that have happened to him and expect her to forgive him for everything. But the door she had shut when she walked out this morning is open again, just a crack, and if he can see light through it then she supposes that's all right for now. 

She should probably care more about the fact that they've been staring at each other for an uncomfortable amount of time, with Nic here, observing it all. But she doesn't. Her world has narrowed to encompass only two people, and she barely even remembers that Nic is there at all until he speaks. 

"I feel like maybe I'm the one interrupting something," Nic says slowly, glancing between the two of them, aware at last that he is about to be caught out in the rain without an umbrella. 

Richard says nothing. He's holding an envelope, she sees. Large. Manila. Overstuffed. She sits back, startled. He brought Coralee's notes. When he catches her glancing at them, he makes a nervous adjustment of his glasses and the barest lift of his shoulders, a silent plea to her alone, and she sighs, then gives him the smallest nod in acknowledgment, as if to say, _Okay. I'll listen._

He doesn't look away from her, but her unspoken message must have been received, because Richard clears his throat and says, "Nic, would you please just give us the room for a minute?" 

"Uh, yeah, sure," Nic replies, still studying the two of them as they study each other. She knows Nic will have questions later. That's fair. He should. But right now she has no answers. "I...don't really know what's going on, but I'll just be in the sound room. Whenever that 'minute' you need is up." 

"Thanks," she murmurs, as Nic heads for the door. She thinks Richard makes a similar expression of quiet gratitude, but it's too soft to hear, and in any case neither of them move, or even look away from each other, until the door closes with a _snap_ behind Nic. 

Now that it's just the two of them, she drops even the small semblance of courtesy she'd been maintaining. Having sympathy for the devil isn't quite the same as maintaining civility.

"You wanted to talk," she says, spreading her hands on the table. "So let's fucking talk." 

He blinks at her choice of words, but doesn't comment on it. Instead, he says, "All right," and sets the large manila envelope he was holding on the table in front of her, then sinks into the chair on the other side of the table. It is not a large space, but there is at least an ocean between them. The envelope crosses it; their hands do not. "For you." 

She eyes the envelope like it's Pandora's box, which, in a way, she guesses it might be. She does not touch it. "Is that what I think it is?" 

"Probably," he says, and when she still doesn't move at all, he frowns and nudges the envelope further in her direction. It is a _very_ full envelope, and seeing the size of it only makes her anger flare up again, hotter and brighter than before. How many notes does he have? How many messages? And is it greater or less than the number of times he has angrily threatened to walk away from all of this, just because she was looking into the very thing he so desperately wanted to uncover? 

"Well, I didn't ask you for those," she says, folding her arms across her chest. "I also didn't tell Nic about them, if you're curious." 

"I know," he sighs. His hands twitch nervously over the top of the envelope, and she tries not to remember how warm they are when they are holding hers. "That's why I'm giving them to you."

"You know what, first, maybe you can tell me why, every fucking time she's come up, you've shouted me down and told me what I found wasn't relevant, when that's what you wanted the whole time." 

"Please, try to understand. I didn't know you. I didn't--" 

"You didn't trust me. I get that. I do understand that trust takes a long time to build, but I also understand that it's usually easier if one person doesn't lie to the other person for nearly two solid years." 

"I didn't _lie_ ," he says, and when she slaps her hand against the table, saying, " _Come on_ ," he adds, "Well, I didn't. I may not have told you everything, but that isn't a lie." 

"Are you serious right now?" 

"Yes," he says, huffily. "I did not lie to you. I wasn't entirely forthcoming but that isn't the same thing as a lie." 

"Okay. Whatever helps you sleep at night," she grumbles, and then both of them look away for a moment, because yesterday, that thing was her, and they both know it. She shakes her head, willing those memories away. "It's my job to ask you questions. It's my job to follow the story." 

He sighs. "I know that." 

"Do you?" she demands. "Since you've just been using me and my show for your own agenda, I wasn't sure you knew or cared what I was supposed to be doing." 

"Of course I do, but-- look, would you just read what's in the damn envelope?" 

"I don't know, would you just tell me you're sorry? I don't want these notes, I want an apology."

They glare at each other for a moment, both of them caught up in their own self-righteous anger.

"Fine," he grumbles. "Yes. Which one of my many sins would you like me to apologize for?" 

She ticks the possibilities off on angry fingers. "Manipulating me? Withholding information? Jeopardizing the narrative integrity of my work? Making me think you-- you know what, take your pick," she says, cutting herself off before she can dive entirely off the deep end and saying something like _making me think you cared_. "I mean, if you _are_ actually sorry. If you're not, you know what, you can really just leave." 

"Of course I'm sorry." 

"Yeah, well, I need you to be specific," she says. "For what?" 

"All of the above," he sighs. "Maybe I did lie, I don't know. If it helps, I've been lying to myself for a lot longer than two years." 

"It doesn't," she bites out. "And if you need to lie to yourself, that's one thing, but I thought we were...I don't know. Friends. Or...something." 

"I don't have a lot of those anymore," he tells her. "I'm...out of practice." 

"Okay, well, that's just...sad," she says, finally. "Really, really sad, and not an excuse to treat me like this." 

"No, you're right, it isn't. But I told you earlier this year that I thought there were people after me, after my family. After anyone I-- anyone I care about," he says, a catch in his voice that hooks into her heart. "The deeper we dig, the more that seems true. Tell me to sacrifice those people on the altar of my own personal truth. Tell me to put those people in harm's way. I won't do that. I _can't _."__

__Something resurfaces for her then, interviews from such early days that it feels like she did them in another lifetime. "Is that what happened to your old team?"_ _

____

____

"Nothing happened to my old team. They're all fine, as far as I know." 

"Except Travis," she corrects, as gently as she can manage. 

"Yes," he sighs. "Except Travis." 

"We tried to talk to them, you know, when we were first starting this. They wouldn't. Did you-- did you send everyone away because you thought something might happen to them, if they stayed?" 

He shifts around in his chair. "Surely it's not that hard for you to believe that I'm capable of being concerned for the welfare of other people." 

"No, it isn't," she says quietly, thinking of pancakes and coffee and the comforting warmth of him at her side. "But that's not really an answer." 

"Yes," he says, after taking a long breath, and then another. "Yes, I sent everyone away. Yes, I was worried about their safety. They won't talk to you because legally, they can't. They signed non-disclosure agreements and I made it abundantly clear that if they talked, I'd take them all to court." He pauses to tug off his glasses and set them aside, then covers his face with his hands for a moment. "And for reasons I'd rather not get into right now, I need _you_ to know that I won't-- I wouldn't sue them, if they talked to you. But they can't know that. If anyone thinks they know anything, they're in danger. I burned a lot of bridges there. But I did what I had to do to keep them safe. And I would do it again." 

She's silent for a while, turning that over in her thoughts. "Richard-- what happened with Travis? Really? Do you know?" 

"I know that he wasn't hit by a bus," he admits. "Someone killed him and made it look like an accident." 

She frowns. "Not to sound like-- well, like you-- but can you prove that?" 

"Not exactly," he says, staring down at the envelope. "Maybe you should-- I brought these for a reason, I think they explain--" 

"I'm sure they do, but I would really like for _you_ to explain it to me instead," she says, because she wants him to be the one to say it, to finally account for all of the lies he's told her, all of the things that have gone unsaid. 

"Fine," he sighs, seeming to understand what she hasn't said. "There's a tape in here somewhere. It's security camera footage from the street he was on when he...died. It's pretty clear from this footage that it's not a bus accident, but I can't say what it actually was. It's...unexplained. At present." 

"Unexplained-- Richard," she says, closing her eyes briefly, hoping she has misunderstood, "please. Please do not tell me that you have a black tapes case of shadow figures killing your former assistant and you are just now bringing this to my attention. Please don't tell me that." When he doesn't say anything, she opens her eyes again. "Well?" 

"I'm trying to be more forthcoming with you," he says, spreading his hands. "Would you like me to lie?" 

" _No_ ," she replies. "No, I wouldn't, but-- _fuck_. How many more tapes are there? _Exactly_."

"One hundred and three," he says. She isn't sure which of the competing twelve emotions she's feeling wins the battle and shows on her face, but whichever one it is, it must be strong, because he doesn't hesitate for a second before he adds, "I'm sorry." 

"Okay, but I just-- I'm not sure that _I'm sorry_ is really going to cut it, here." 

"I don't know what else I can say." 

"Fuck," she swears again. "I don't-- I can't-- let me just-- Travis died in 2006, you let your team go, what, ten years later? Why the gap?" 

"I didn't get the tape until then. And until that time, I had no reason to suspect it was anything other than an accident." 

She leans forward. "And now you think shadow figures killed him?" 

"No," he huffs. "I think someone has manipulated the images on the tape to make it appear that way, but a person, or persons, is clearly responsible." 

"A person or persons is responsible for the same things in _all_ of the black tapes? Which span decades? Including the one of you and your sister?" 

When he says nothing, she risks leaning a little farther forward, a little closer to him. "Richard-- did you see the things on that tape? You did, didn't you?" 

He looks away. "Do we really have to discuss--" 

"Yes! We do!" she practically shouts. "And is it really that hard to just give me a goddamn answer?" 

"Yes!" he says. 

"Yes, it's that hard, or yes, you saw--" 

"Both," he grumbles, and her eyes widen. 

"Oh. Okay. Wow." 

"I don't want to talk about it," he adds, "not that my wishes will matter very much to you." 

"Am I recording this?" she demands, and he sighs deeply. 

"No, but--" 

"Then for my own sanity, let me see if I've got this right," she says, and waits until he nods to continue. "You and your sister see strange shadow figures that you think want to kill your family. You spend I don't know how many years insisting they're not real, even after those things do actually kill your assistant. At which point you bring this to _me_ to investigate because your missing and presumed dead ex-wife left you a message telling you to do so, but every time I bring her up you tell me it's not related or relevant." She doesn't add, _Also, at some point along the way I fell in love with you and based on breakfast and hand-holding, I think I'm not alone in that,_ but she does think about it. "Is that-- is that where we are?" 

"Technically she's legally dead and not my ex-wife," he says, fiddling with the edges of the envelope, "but yes." 

"Sure," she snorts. "Now you're a stickler for accuracy." 

"Also, as I stated previously, I don't think anything supernatural killed Travis. But someone did. A person. Not-- _demons_ , if that's what you're thinking. That's ridiculous." 

She fights not to scream in frustration; a few calming breaths seem to stifle the urge. "Okay, so, revising my summary: in _your_ opinion, people somehow masquerading as shadow figures were/are after your family and killed your assistant, decades apart?" 

He twists his lips to one side. "While I admit the time delay is cause for uncertainty, that still seems closer to reality." 

"Reality," she says flatly. "Sure. Is it reality that I'm in danger? Is Nic? My producers? My interns? Which one of us is the next one to get shoved in front of a bus?"

"I tried to step away from this once before because I was worried about you," he reminds her. "Why do you think I did that?" 

"I appreciate the thought, but if things are that _dire_ \-- why bring me the Unsound in the first place? The exact kind of case that Travis was working on? Why bring me that, if you were so worried about something bad happening to other people that you let your whole team go? What-- how little do you think of me and the work that I do that you just didn't...care, about that?" 

"That's not-- I didn't-- it wasn't like that," he says, shaking his head. Once again, his hands twitch like he wishes he were holding hers, but she can't make a move toward him, not yet. 

"Then what was it like? Because I don't understand--" 

"I thought we could disprove it. You and me. I thought that's what she was telling me, in her note. The one I found after I got back from the Torres case." He does reach a little further across the table at that, putting his hands just next to hers, on either side of the envelope. She watches them for a minute like they belong to two other people, and then he takes a breath and continues on. "I thought that if we did that, if we aired that proof on your show, then whoever these people are who see me as some kind of threat would see that they are wrong, that I'm just a man. I thought life would return to normal. I didn't think it would be this complicated. I didn't plan to...linger." 

Her heartbeat is very loud in the space of the silence that falls between them before she speaks again. "Then why did you?" 

"I told you earlier," he says, hands twitching on either side of the envelope, so close to hers and still so far. "This...the truth isn't the only thing here that I care about." 

Whatever he's trying to say, she wishes he'd just _say_ it, but maybe it was always going to be her. Maybe it has to be her, because he can't, and she can. Not for the first or last time in her life, Alex, uncertain yet determined, takes a deep breath and runs at what she wants. 

"Yeah, well-- my show isn't all I care about, either," she says, and when she puts her hands over his, he doesn't move away. "I care about you, too. I...care a lot." 

"You're not alone in that," he says hoarsely, and she grips his hands and tries to remind herself to breathe. 

As admissions of love go, it would probably be pretty underwhelming to anyone else, but she's very, very grateful to be sitting down regardless.

_Okay, well, time for the million-dollar question, listeners. Don't take this personally, but I'm really glad you're not actually listening to this intensely personal conversation._

"What...Richard. What exactly are we going to do about this?" 

"What _can_ we do about this?" 

Her face warms as various possibilities come to mind. "If you're asking for a list, I can think of a few things," she admits, gratified by the way his eyes widen behind his glasses, at least until he tugs his hands away from hers. "Hey, I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable--" 

"You didn't," he tells her. "I have lists of my own, it's just that..." 

"Just say it," she urges, when it looks like he won't keep going. "Whatever it is, I think I deserve to hear it, at least." 

He closes his eyes for a second. "I'm sorry, Alex, I just-- I don't think I can be the person you need me to be," he says. His voice is rougher than usual, but it's as gently as anyone has ever told her no. 

_Ever heard someone's heart break in real time, listeners? No? Well, don't worry about it, you still won't, because I'm not recording this._

Her heart is in her throat, but she manages to talk around it. "You don't think you can," she says, swallowing hard, "or you don't want to?"

"It's not-- it definitely isn't the latter," he says. "But I can't-- we can't-- there are just some lines that we shouldn't cross." 

"What are you so afraid of?" she whispers, fearful that if she says the words any louder he'll bolt and they'll never get to the bottom of this mess. 

"Having someone to lose," he says. His voice breaks on the last word, and the rest of her heart breaks along with it. 

"I'm guessing it won't help if I say I'm not going anywhere." 

"And I believe you mean that, but historically," he says, gesturing down at the envelope, "when it comes to me and other people, that has not mattered very much." 

"Whatever's going on there doesn't have a lot to do with me," she sighs. "But...I see your point." 

Once again, she is grateful they are having this conversation sitting down, because she thinks that even if she hadn't already been, the hurt and regret and disappointment would have taken her down anyway. At the moment, she would very much like to go home, curl up with a pint of ice cream, and lick her wounds. But her apartment is haunted, it's too early for ice cream, and she has a job to do. Whatever else she wanted out of this, she still wants the truth. 

So she takes a breath, steels herself, and says, "Well. At least that's all on the table now, anyway. That's...something." 

"Is it?" 

She lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "I know it's not all in my head." 

"It's not," he sighs. "I wish the circumstances of this were different. I really do." 

"Me too," she says, with a sigh of her own. Despite the good night's sleep she had, she is suddenly exhausted. "Why don't we just... call this here for today. I have some more things to do here, but now that we found my car, I can come by later and get my things." 

"I didn't mean that you had to leave," he says, and she would swear from the way he's looking at her that the thought had not even occurred to him, that he could say something like _I don't think I can be what you need_ and she wouldn't think she needed to find a new place to hang her hat. 

"Well-- you can't want me to stay?"

"I don't want you to _go_ ," he says, and she makes a frustrated little noise. 

"So we're what," she says, raising an eyebrow. "Friends who hold hands and make each other breakfast?" 

"Can't that be enough for now?" 

"For now?" 

"I don't know what any of this is," he says, flattening his hands over the envelope. "I think at this point you're probably right-- it probably is connected to my family, to those damn tapes, but whatever it is... I have to see it through to the end. I have to have some answers."

"I get that," she insists. "What makes you think I don't get that?" 

"I know that you do, but Alex," he says, and reaches for her hands again, "I don't know what I'll have left when all of this is over. I don't know who I'll be. And I'm not going to start something I can't finish. I'm not going to promise you something I can't give you." 

"I'm not asking you to give me anything," she sighs. "Except maybe a little more honesty." 

"I know that's not all you want," he says quietly. "It's not all I want, either, but it's what I have, right now." 

"Yeah. So we just-- what, put this on hold, is that what you're suggesting?"

"I think so," he says. 

_This is ridiculous_ , she wants to say. _I still care about you. That doesn't just stop being true because we agreed not to do anything about it._

"Okay," she says, running her hands through her hair, wrapping bits of it around her nervous fingers. "Okay. But I just want to point out, as long as we're actually talking about this, that if that's what we're doing, then if you're still keeping things from me, it's going to hurt a lot more than it would have otherwise, so maybe-- maybe don't do that?" 

"I am trying," he says, and rubs at the circles under his eyes, careful not to dislodge his glasses. He sighs. "Rome wasn't built in a day." 

"Yeah," she says, thinking of the many, many pieces of information he has been withholding, of one hundred and three new black tapes. "I know." 

"I misjudged you," he says. "In the beginning. I shouldn't have. Maybe if I'd told you everything from the start, we'd have figured it all out by now, and you could have gone back to a normal life." 

"Maybe," she says. She gives him half of a smile that is full of regret. "I would have missed out on some pretty good pancakes, though." 

"I'm sorry," he says, and it is clearly meant to cover more than just the mistakes of the past two years. 

"Apology accepted," she sighs. "But tell me this: what do you want? Out of this investigation, I mean," she clarifies. "Honestly, this time." 

"I want what I think you want. I want the truth," he says, and his lips twitch, just a little, before he adds, "which, I have on the questionable authority of a certain piece of modern media, is something that is _out there_." 

"Wow," she says, simultaneously grateful for the excuse to laugh some of this tension away and irritated that she loves him just a little bit more for saying that. "You paid enough attention to the X-Files to pick up the tagline, I'm impressed," she chuckles. 

"Just tell me how many episodes' worth of penance I should do, and I'll block off an appropriate amount of time."

"Episodes?" she laughs. "Sure, how about one for every one of those new black tapes cases?" 

"There are that many?" he asks, his voice a little higher than normal, and she practically cackles. 

"There are over two-hundred episodes of the X-Files," she explains. "You should plan to block off a lot of time. I think, actually, this might even merit one of the movies." 

He gives her a look that rivals the face he made when they were discussing _Ghost Adventures_. "Movies? There's more than one?" 

"Two, actually," she grins. "One of them is...really bad, though, so maybe just the first one." 

"I suppose the punishment should suit the crime," he says. "I can suffer through a terrible movie." 

"Yeah, no, that wouldn't be a proportional response," she says, nose wrinkling in displeasure as she considers the plot of _I Want To Believe_. "It's a _really_ bad movie." 

"It must be," he murmurs, and looks down at the envelope that still sits between them, unopened. "Right," he says, pushing it back across to her. "I know you said we could pick this up later, but I think you should probably--" 

"No," she interrupts. "I don't want to read those." He raises an eyebrow, and she blushes. "Okay, yes, I mean, I do. Of course I do. I'm incredibly curious, and I appreciate the trust, but that doesn't-- don't you think they're-- I'm sure they're personal." 

"They're not-- well, perhaps they're not entirely personal," he clarifies, frowning. 

"Then you can read them to me," she says. "If you want. You can read them to me, but I'm not recording it, and I'm not taking notes, and it's your decision what to read and what not to read. Okay?" 

"Okay, but why--" 

"Because I'm trying to respect your boundaries, which is not something I've always been good at," she interrupts. "Because trust goes both ways. Just-- because, okay?" 

"All right," he relents, and opens the envelope. There's a weird moment where she half expects some demonic monster to fly out of it and swallow them both whole, but nothing dramatic happens at all.

"They're in chronological order," he says, gesturing at the stack of materials. "Or at least, they're in the order in which I received them." 

"Okay," she says, as he picks up the note on the top of the stack and clears his throat. 

Whatever it says, he stares at the words on the page for long time-- long enough that she's pretty sure he's lost in memories that there's no way she should share.

"Richard," she says softly, reaching for his hand. "Don't-- don't read those to me. Why don't you just... summarize." 

He blinks up at her. "Summarize." 

"Yeah. You can tell me all day long that those aren't personal, but..." She shrugs. "They are. And I don't need to be in the middle of that. Whatever those say, I think you should keep them for yourself." 

"Thank you," he says. She nods, just once, and he clears his throat. "That said, I don't know that summarizing is even possible for some of these. There's a lot here, and it's all very...strange." 

"Okay, well," she says, tapping her fingers on the table. "I have some questions." 

"I am entirely unsurprised," he says, and he's still holding her hand and the smile he gives her is warm and fond and she has no idea how they're going to navigate this ridiculous holding pattern, really, but she tries to concentrate on her questions anyway. 

"Right. So-- how did she even know you were talking to me? We hadn't released those episodes yet when you called me back, after the Torres case. Did she bug your office, or something?" Alex blinks. "That...sounds even wackier out loud than it did in my head, wow." 

Richard just shrugs. "Maybe so, but you're not far off. The receptionist did, in fact, turn out to be working with her." 

"So that's where Melissa went," she says, eyes wide, but he just shrugs again. "Well, I can certainly see why you got a little...paranoid, there for a while." 

"Thank you," he says wryly. 

"What about Ruby?" 

His expression turns resigned. "I let her go for approximately twenty-four hours, after which it became apparent that I probably couldn't function without her. If Ruby's a spy, I've just had to accept it. She's also irreplaceable." 

"That's...actually kind of sweet," Alex says, and laughs when he looks affronted at the compliment.

"It is not," he huffs. "Good administrative assistants are incredibly hard to find, that's all."

"Sure," she grins. "Your secret dies with me." 

"Hmmph," he grumbles, but his eyes are kind and his expression is not as exasperated as he's trying to sound. "Did you have another question? That can't be all." 

She takes a breath. "Yeah. And-- I'm not trying to be difficult, here, okay, so hear me out." 

"Okay," he says. 

"How do you know these are really from her?" 

"I thought you might ask me that," he sighs. 

"It's a reasonable question," she murmurs. "Well?" 

"It's...the writing. Turns of phrase. They just-- I know that they are," he insists, adjusting his glasses. She is reminded a little of her phone conversation with Coralee's parents, the way her mother had adamantly insisted that their daughter had sent them a postcard. 

"Okay, well, I don't have a problem taking things on faith," she points out, "but you usually do. So unless you know something I don't--" 

"I just-- I know, all right? Can we please just leave it at that?" 

She doesn't mention that it's a bit of a double standard, this leap of faith, and not one he'd be willing to extend to a lot of other people, because she's pushed enough today. She's _been_ pushed enough today, when it comes to that. And the authenticity of these messages isn't really something she's interested in debating, anyway. 

"Okay," she says, holding up her hands. "I did have to ask." 

"I know," he says, then looks down at the pile of secrets and sighs again. "I suppose this hasn't made it particularly easy for you to trust me." 

"You picked a great day to drop this on me, I'll give you that," she admits, and when he looks like he'll apologize again, she adds, "But I understand why you didn't tell me before. And-- I very much want to know more about everything she's told you, but I also want to try to track down my former sleep therapist before her trail gets too cold, and I think these can wait and Bernier can't." 

"Fair enough," he says, and then then they're both quiet for awhile as he stands and sorts the stack of notes and other things back into a semblance of something orderly. "I should have told you about this a long time ago," he sighs, sealing everything back up inside the envelope. "But I didn't think I'd ever talk to her again, and these notes-- they were just-- they were all I had." 

He really needs to stop saying heartbreaking things, she thinks, as she impulsively gets up from her chair and inadvisably wraps her arms around him, holding pattern be damned. If they're friends, and they are, she's allowed to give a friend a little human comfort, surely. He doesn't seem to mind, anyway-- he returns the gesture without hesitation. Probably she shouldn't be standing here, at her place of work, holding and being held by her supposedly platonic subject, but of all the bad decisions she's made recently, this is one she's okay defending. 

"Twenty years is a very long time to miss someone," she says, voice half-muffled from speaking partway into his shirt. "I'm not even going to try to tell you that I understand that, but I'm really sorry about all of it." 

"I loved her very much," he says, and maybe she hugs him a little tighter at the sound of the sadness in his voice before she lets go. "But more and more, lately, I don't think I ever really knew her at all." 

"Did it change what you said on the show?" she asks suddenly, the question out of her mouth before she can stop it. "Knowing she was listening." 

He blinks down at her. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean that...I was talking to an audience, but you...I think maybe, after you got that note from her, you just had an audience of one," she says gently. "It would make sense, if it changed what you said, or how you said it." 

"I suppose it probably did," he acknowledges. "But I couldn't begin to quantify that difference for you." 

"That's okay," she says, because it is, and she hopes he understands what she's trying to explain. _Of course you still love her. Anyone would. It's okay. We're okay. We'll figure it out. You and me. Together._ "I just...wondered." 

"I hadn't really thought about it," he sighs. "It's been a long time." 

She grips his arm gently, just for a second, and steps back. 

"So," she says. "Where do we go from here?" 

"I thought we agreed-- oh," he says, relaxing. "You mean with the investigation." 

"Yeah, I'll let you know if I mean the other thing," she says, which is a hell of a casual way to refer to the over-abundance of feelings she has for him, really, but when he looks like he will apologize again, she holds up her hand, waving him silent. "Don't tell me you're sorry again. I understand, okay?" 

He nods, the brisk, efficient gesture that signifies they are back in business mode for now. "Then, in answer to your question, I think we should probably start with anything you can find on the imposter Bernier." 

"Okay," she agrees. "And probably all those new black tapes-- although I guess there's an actual Monique Bernier out in Spokane, maybe I should check in with her at some point."

"I'd like to go with you when you do," he says. "If you don't mind." 

_A four hour drive with you right next to me? What could go wrong?_

"Sure," she says, pushing the thought away. "Oh. Speaking of road trips-- I got a couple of leads today I'd like to follow up on. Something about more sacred geometry, up in Vancouver. Nic and I were heading up tomorrow anyway so we'll check it out. He got word that Warren's supposed to be up there at a conference, or something, so it's a two-for-one special, potentially." 

Richard gives her a worried frown at the mention of Warren. "I teach tomorrow, but I could reschedule--" 

"No, it's fine," she interrupts. "We can handle it." 

"Be careful, please," he says quietly, taking one of her hands in his as he does. The brusque, businesslike efficiency of moments before fades away.

"I will," she promises. They stand together for a few minutes, not speaking. Maybe she leans a little closer than friends should, and maybe he does the same. Maybe there's a little more staring than friends would do, too, and more than one thought of throwing caution to the wind and pulling him down for a kiss, but she resolutely does not do that. The staring is enough. Probably. 

_This is totally professional staring, listeners. That's a thing I learned from watching the X-Files._

"Well, this holding pattern thing is really going great so far," she jokes, when they finally step away from each other. 

He snorts a little laugh as that familiar wry smile creeps back across his face, but all he says in response is, "What do you want for dinner?" 

"Comfort food," she says immediately. "Which is pasta. And cheese. Lots of it." 

"I can manage that," he says. 

"Good," she nods, and glances at the door. "I'm going to go get Nic and get back to work. I think he's probably worried that we don't have a show anymore. We do, right?" 

"Yes," he says, and reaches over to pick up the envelope. "What are you planning to tell him about this, exactly?" 

She shrugs. "A very edited version of this conversation. He understands how confidential sources work, he'll be fine."

"And your...listeners?" 

"All of them," she asks, "Or one in particular?" 

"All of them," Richard replies firmly. 

"I think...we should figure out how to work the existence of all those other tapes in, but other than that...they know what they need to know for now. We'll deal with the rest of it as we need to." She sighs and nods at the envelope. "I'll do my best to keep that out of it." 

"If you feel as though it needs to be included--" 

"Then we'll talk about it first," she promises, and he gives her a grateful smile in return. 

"Thank you." 

"Sure," she says. "And thank you, for being honest with me. Eventually, anyway." 

"I don't think I deserve thanks for that," he says, smile fading. Something in his voice makes her pause on her way to the door, and she turns to look at him for a minute, trying to determine what exactly has made her stop. 

"Are you sure there's nothing else you want to tell me?" 

"Yes," he says, and after a minute, she nods, but as she goes she wonders if whatever he hasn't said has anything to do with a boy and a river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes & References: 
> 
> 1\. Did I name Alex's parents after the ghosts from _How the Ghost Stole Christmas_ , one of my favorite X-Files episodes? I did. I'm a menace. 
> 
> 2\. The Fox sisters-- in part, responsible for kicking off spiritualism in the United States, despite the fact their act was a hoax. 
> 
> 3\. Unrelated to this story: WHAT IS UP WITH THAT WEIRD 59 SECOND UPDATE, HUH???? _It was never over._ I about lost my damn mind. 
> 
> Next time on The Black Tapes, fanfic edition: Alex and Richard test the limits of this holding pattern. Stay with us!

**Author's Note:**

>  _folie à deux_ : "madness shared by two." Also, an episode of The X-Files where Mulder sees giant bugs that zombify people! Totes appropriate for TBTP, yes/MFY? (We are 100% not done with X-Files references in this fic.)
> 
> (Also, many thanks to my wife, @leiascully, for not divorcing me while I fell into some kind of weird writer's fog to write this thing, omg.)


End file.
